ATLAS

blues man, man of soul,

writhing in my forearms.

a heart too calloused to pump.

eyes too full, fading to chalk;

thin wooden fingers, whining joints,

sagging biceps splotched with bleach,

a broom mustache solid in sweat.

it hurts, blues man, to feel you fade.

-

your sax bleat against the sidewalk,

the dry reed snapping on impact.

your canned bank spills nickels into the storm drain,

and i feel your shattered muscles shiver against my chest,

your spine spasming back and forth, pounding against your lungs,

blocked by all the shit you’ve eaten in your seven or so decades.

-

your shoulders slump as your chin wilted to your wheezing heart.

i laid you down against the wall of Mother’s and searched for a payphone;

gazing back, you looked like an old black Atlas.

i stuck a few quarters in and yelled at a machine for four infinite minutes.

i stare, and see people looking anywhere but your face,

dropping change in your saxophone case.

your fingertips soon stop shaking,

and with it, my old earth sank into space,

and you thrust meinto a new one.

it hurts here, blues man, man of soul. 

it hurts here, and everyone’s got that rasp in their voice.

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Published in Now, Then.