-The ringside blues-

1.

––The hometown geography ranges north to south, its length overall,

more-so than east to west which serves as the beam of the city's geophysical

placement on the continent.

––Flashy poetics aside, it's a hard-knuckled town.

It's not the lightning bantamweight stinging jabs to the head in the middle of the ring,

but more the heavyweight, the bloodied bruiser crouching flat-footed on the ropes,

waiting for just the right time to throw the right cross in time to stop the bleeding.

––It's a tough, indelicate, indelible place, paid for its labors by hand delivered check

at their stations, and forgiven of its sins at the end of the week.

––Near gone to history are the Portuguese widows, black-shawled in never-ending mourning, but the spar of light still strengthens the eye; sweeps from east to west

at the horizons.

2.

––Across the street, the raspy-throated Bolognese is constantly yapping.

When I close my eyes it sounds like an improvised jazz riff for high reed instrument

as if composed by Luigi Nono.

––Dog or man within their rightful place lean-in to be heard.

3.

––At the quickstep from this morning's reading, the first stanza of a short poem,

Kerouac tells us:

––"someday you'll be lying

there in a nice trance

and suddenly a hot

soapy brush will be

applied to your face

—it'll be unwelcome

—someday the

undertaker will shave you.."