Floating

Today in the taxi I brought the famous jazz drummer’s wife, Elena, all around Harlem doing errands. Cobb is the last surviving member of the band that recorded Kind of Blue. We went to the bank and to the pharmacy. She let loose with some stories. It was as if his music was not alone waking up from its dream.

I remembered a psychiatrist who said children wake up in the middle of the night not to see if you’re there, but if they’re there.

I thought of how his wire brushes made this sound like neither fish nor mammal — but this warm ebbing handling a spine.

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Pink Gloves

Tonight in the taxi I drove four women from a bachelorette party complete with their tiaras and feathers to another bar. Already happy, they pushed the soon-to-be-bride forward and she asked me how I thought she looked.

I was too taken aback to answer much of anything. She was liquid, prehistoric, and my little body burned.

I thought of the Lord throwing handfuls of little sequins at the party, as if to say, there is no other life but this one.

*** Both of these poems first appeared in The Common.