Hail you great city and what do I hear?
An electric cacophony of noise and noise
and where here does the blue bird sing?
with the roar of the bus, the honking of the horn, the hail of the cab,
the city sings a song to us folks.
She sings rushing and rushing until the great lady roars,
and the sky dims, the lights come up and a star shines.
a lone trumpet pushes out a smokey barroom door
and the old gal gives a listen to the man on the stage.
She is taking a deep breath as the music drifts across her
singing her to sleep by the sound of the jazz man
and the blues guitar and Frankie and all the greats of the modern age
who have tossed their hats in her streets
hoping the lady would toss a coin their way
and by sun up the lady has her tune to hum
to give back to the greats and the smalls
and the city she's a tappin
a rad a pat pat
and this old fat girl's gonna roar!
This poem was written while I was drinking coffee in a Borders book store, down town Chicago on Michigan ave. I watched two teens playing the drums on the bottom of two green five gallon buckets. Their hats were in the streets and they were magnificent.
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