Here's the End of the World mobile with its shiny bullhorn & platitudes among drawings tattooed across the beige hood big as a mammoth broken out of ice, bellyful of buttercups. Doomsday has come & gone, & now the sluggish van rolls toward the snowy East River at a quarter past midnight, & I wonder how it is to quit a job one week earlier & return on blue Monday, begging the foreman for a chance to stoke the brimstone furnace. Changes stumble into my life sometimes, like last Sunday when I sat at the dining table of an old friend of a thousand stories, a glare falling into my left eye, her daughter watching TV in a side room, & I heard this Foley guy sawing a maple cross with a horse-hair bow. I can't help but walk over & lean into the doorway, & then raise a phantom alto to my lips. The cat's young too, rocking his upright at the foot of Babel, speaking pain & joy in the most beautiful way I've heard in a long time, & say to myself, Rabbas, you could run the table with this guy at Small's, could teach the shadows to walk on their hands & dance with alley cats. I've been here a long time working this hunk of brass, & knew Mingus in the days when he'd strike a righteous pose up on the bandstand & bring down the house, talking jive & rave, jabbing below the belt, where it hurts. Can you imagine him up there today, playing a new version of "Fables of Faubus," big as thunder at dawn rocking hundred-year-old hanging trees out of memory, can you dig? The guy on the corner jingling coins in a Dixie cup pulls on his blind-man's shades as March runs down Delancey, woozy as a rush-up of sparrows over Chinatown. One small thing seems almost holy, & lightheaded hues settle over the architecture & a handkerchief dance unfolds into some jostle of bumper balls. This is the hour paradise is not only for itself, & one doesn't feel stupid picking up a dull penny from a sidewalk. A tremble goes through cloth, tugging bodies into a new world, & by ten-thirty the wind rolls on past the Hudson, headed upstate. I want to jump up & down, to shout as March ambushes the last antiheroes this scatterbrain side of town. Copyright © 2017 Yusef Komunyakaa. Used with permission of the author. |
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