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Purple Bongos at the Bus Stop
The window to the porch
is wide open, inviting.
A bongo begins as if
calling a tribe, draws
me outside where I am
not alone on my porch.
My neighbor sweeping,
stops, leans on his broom,
has just put away porch
furniture. There is still
bright sun with a warm
breeze. I spy the purple
bongo with a long neck
played by a young woman,
her flowered skirt flowing
over her combat boots.
Another arty, theatrical
type beats a bongo to
answer in a dueling
cadence as if we are
at a parade. We are the
parade: a neighborhood
tableau mesmerized on
porches, pedestrians
paused, idling vehicle
passengers listening.
This urban autumn is
dissolved by the groaning
whine and fart of the
bus stopping. It obscures
our view of the purple
bongos. Blots out their
syncopation. Is the stage
curtain passing between us.
Pulls away taking the last
spontaneous moment of
a perfect fall day.
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