New Poem.
In our mitten-shaped city
the poor neighborhoods
cup the wealthy downtown
like a thumb and palm
George lives in the palm
Crosses the rich streets every day
to make coin at a job in the thumb
At night he walks back just as poor
On Wednesdays he plays
gutbucket bass in the backing band
for a blues jam at a local bar where haughty boys
bearing new Strats and vintage Gibsons
come in now and then to try and finesse
that muscled art with their prog-conditioned heads
but count on George (who lives by his rocking palm
and two-finger slam on old thick strings)
to steady them and calm it down
to twelve bar lope when things get floaty
George leaves the palm in the morning
and crosses those rich streets to his job
Now and then on his way he catches the eye
of some Richie Rich he’s had to school
who will nod
eager to catch a second glance from the Gutbucket King
George only rarely and incompletely
acknowledges this
as they both know which side of the mitten
he comes from and
in this life
as is in the blues
nothing is likely to make either one
forget it
Dark Matter 