by diane tucker
The wet-felt overcast air packed
into the August afternoon is scattered,
cooled by your melodica and your voice
in old French song.
The humidity gathers itself
into raindrops and rushes to you.
It throws you all its tiny silver coins.
All the damp sweaty scurriers,
tourists and shoppers, be damned.
You are going to sing.
Thank you for your blue-boxed breath,
your thin paisley dress dripping
bohemian beside designers’ doors.
At the rushing hour of the afternoon
you pull harried ears to the curb,
bring into focus the waiting bench
and the fresh tree. Your song’s
momentum speeds us into stillness.