-The ringside blues-

1.

––The hometown geography ranges

south to north, 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 its station, 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.."