Boston Creme

The harmonica man plays
his deep reed rhythms
within the capillaries of
the city — these tunnels
filled with the liquid action
of hot human bodies in
shuffling din and crowded
containment, squealing brakes,
shifting beneath skyscrapers and
busy streets in pill-shaped mediums —
and the homeless man wearing
sweats shakes a clear Dixie cup
asking gently for spare change like
a Santa Clause doing collections
during Yuletide.

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