Sunday Night Jazz

A poem, written in memory of Sunday evenings past:

These streets.
These noisy, busy, littered, God-forsaken city streets.
Where bums and day laborers loiter.
Where beer cans, cigarette butts, chicken bones, and Cheetos bags collect.
Where white cops exhale their warm carcinogens into the cold faces of sleeping black men. Where traffic builds, and sirens scream far too fast, and far too often.
Where I close the blinds in the dark of night to shield my room from the bright city lights
and long to blot out the moon light instead.

In darkness, the cold winter snow begins to fall.
It covers the trash,
buries the cars,
sends the people inside.
Somehow, it even silences the sirens.

So we walk,
down the center of the silent
and snow covered street.

We hear,
faintly at first,
the tunes to which the snowflakes dance.

We stop,
and the rhythm becomes more clear.

We dance,
along with the snowflakes,
in the calm of a snowy night that precedes Monday morning,
to the sweet sounds of Sunday Night Jazz.

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