Scraps Of Marley

Scraps
of Marley in my ears,
not enough to change me
or the way I play, but present
nonetheless.

I don’t want ganja
right now, or even justice
for the oppressed;
right now, it would be enough
to fall into the easy rhythm
of this, something my fingers
are resisting.

If even my nailbeds
can’t understand this,
what chance is there for this Western heart
to feel good with it — to move
beyond the bounce of it, the jaunty
erotic pulse of it?  I struggle
with the punching bag
beat; keep wanting to syncopate
and make it more complex
than it already is.

Bob smiles from the CD cover.
He’s not even looking at me —
past me perhaps, into homes
I don’t know and never will
where the rocksteady works wonders
to keep the people sane, hopeful
in the middle of the grind.  I’m
a tourist here, the guitar
no better than a simple camera
looking for snapshots on vacation.