Street corner music man,
Fourth and market,
old skinhead black guy
in knee long lab coat
marked “lab technician”
dug out of hospital dumpster,
squattin’ on rattan basket,
fish bowl out front his gig
on gummed up cement
stuffed with green backs,
loose change, what-not,
for riffs of cosmos
upside/down, inside/out,
syncopatin’ with overturned five gallon
paint cans, dented pots, fry pans,
52 oz glass jars, metal buckets,
gone wild with ancient drum sticks,
shoutin’ out, cryin’ out,
“Save the world! Pee-pull!…”
“Save the world! Pee-pull!…
Pee-pull!…”
to young and mix race lovers,
androgynes, LGTB’s,
arm n’ arm friends, runaways,
pimps, pink and purple hairs,
all time Halloweeners,
weekend grandmas with kids,
poser college dudes n’ chicks,
tourists in medley of designer
rip offs from discount stores
in today’s colors, leathers, tams,
jazzin’, laughin’, hurryin’
no place, no way,
carryin’ on to his Carib,
bang, bang, bangin’
timpanic, street wise,
sing-song chantin’ y’all:
“Lisss-en, pee-pull!
Lisss-en, pee-pull!
Lisss-en, pee-pull!…”