When you find another anthem,

you take it back over all the

bus routes, hallways and parks

that salt & that pepper your years,

each having previously held

warm verses and grooves of their own.

 

You walk back.

You re-rhythmically

re-mythologize the

steps to the church

and the steeple.

The prayer of her knee highs

and the black

embankments of

her hair.

 

The people on the bus and

the ones that make up the crowd.

You’ve seen most of it before,

but never to Miles or Betty Davis.

Never to Muddy, King, or Wolf.

 

People as convoluted as they become, are

all at once redeemable, by a perfect soundtrack.

 

A Kaleidoscope, wringing out the stories

in their eyes and perks; shearing off

lines of nuance.  Carving another edge.

 

The frenetic bird-mimicry

& melting of stuffy snow glazed people.

The dance of the chilled and iced.

The palace of warmth that

crystallizes them.

 

I hate a warm bus. I start to shed layers…

scribble lines at stops;

 

Holden Caulfield isn’t dead!

He’s alive and well and living in Canada!

 

A girls pink hair seems to be giving her more enjoyment as

her boyfriend shifts in his padded seat.

A symphony of bodies bobbing along.

As if perfectly,

by puppeteer of inertia,

to this seasons song,

a play were all along enacted

rarely ever changing, until we

reach our crescendo.

 

Go scouring for another score.

Something new to re-watch you dance to.