T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only

Uptown Blues

All style, all surface—no tears in the harp, no tears in the harpist.
Nothing comes up. Under the Salvation Army awning
They pass an empty hat from hand to hand
Until somebody steals it; slick as a plunger-mute lick,
It disappears. A scum of powdered eggs for breakfast,
Boiled coffee, something that used to be a wedge of bread.
No sermon, no praise, no blame. Everything is forgiven.
The airshafts to the depths are locked. A sterno drinker
Swallowed the key at midnight, and in the smoggy breaking
Of another backstreet morning, he is sifting his own shit. 

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