[96 words]
the corner bar still sweats stale beer
under a dingy ceiling of fluorescent gods
who can never save us
outside the rain is a riotous mob
washing graffiti into slogans
sewers choke on last night’s protests
signs and paper flags spill into the gutter
the homeless man’s ticking off
about hunger in the belly of his rich city
from a saxophone’s bent spine
comes a straightened note
the drummer slides along the skin of the snare
and settles into a secret rhythm
we all pretend to hear it
because the beat knows what the empire hides
Thomas Deane Tucker is a native Floridian who, for the past 26 years, has taught Philosophy and Humanities at a college on the High Plains of Nebraska. He is widely published in various poetry journals, as well as having written three academic books. He loves the Great Plains, but will always yearn for the sea.
