Scribbles

for Kyle Carrozza and Davey Rockwell

Let us start the revolution.
It will not be “a” but “the,”
a definition of late night dance parties
and the movement of arms and hands
and ankles.
It will be the revolution of gin
and scotch, of research papers
and lab reports
composed to the tune
of a song we have always known
but are just now finding the words.
We play them through our fingers
and our bodies’ movements.
The percussion is the rhythm
of our hearts and footsteps,
pounded into these familiar sidewalks.

Life is not like Shel Silverstein told us.
Sidewalks do not end
but blossom or fade
into crumbling concrete
and patches of grass.
It is always there,
the cracks are just disguised
and can do more damage
than breaking bones.

On these sidewalks are departures,
caught for a moment
between trees and power lines
until they’re propelled forward.
We rush over concrete
towards the city lights, dusk air
ruffling through the creases
in our wrinkled shirts and hair.
Tonight we dance the old steps
a little offbeat and stumble
into the revolution.

This entry was posted Monday, May 3rd, 2010 at 12:58 am and is filed under Poems. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.