The drums come from the back of the band
the rhythm Jamaican
the poet drifts to the microphone:
“I killed a cowboy today
I didn’t mean it.”
We, the audience, shift over-hot in the room
but pliant leaning into the beat
as the poet sucks us in with the lilt
of his accent blending word and note:
“I killed a cowboy today
Thought they was dead you know.”
The trombonist
with her lips tight on the mouthpiece,
the guitar man nodding in sync
the band loudens and softens
watching the poet run this dream.
He is reeling us in like a tame shark
the whole lot of us
over-eager, awkward,
ready to fall in love.
FE Walls
A Long Perspective 