Sounds from the brass cavern
bop, flit, swell, pitch;
an aural connect-the-dots where with time
and an attentive ear, you’ll hear a form,
linear veins, not pictures or “things”
but more of a feeling manifested by your inner eye.

Deep notes lead to high notes
so one vibrates like concrete
and others rise like pigeons
and visions of the city feel right when set
to the sounds from the brass cavern,
which bop, and flit and swell, pitch,
shifting like the crowd of all colors,
friends and mothers, kids following in the wakes
of the great migrations
(even if they’re just down the block).

At the moment, music occupies my senses,
but the smells! Oh, the smells make memories,
olfactory histories passed down and through generations.
Synaptic gaps leapt and breached by
the waftings of pupusas, shawarmas, and street-vendor hotdogs;
in the apartments are the intimate smells,
the wet towel with a hint of shampoo, the incense and hookah,
the sweet-grass and sage that mask the burning buds and
spilt whisky soaked into creakwood stairs.
Even the storefronts, those pockets of rust grates and grime
and urine stenches, find ways of endearing themselves to you,
in giving a sign, through its excretions, that the city truly lives.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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