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T. R. HUMMER | For Dancers Only
Well, All Right Then
Another morning of broken storefronts, another evening
of fists.
By midnight the street is littered with ticket stubs and empties—
Enumerations of emanations, .22 casings, tire carcasses, and fog.
Music at a distance. Lazy jump blues, horns and a shouter;
Streetcar squeals like trombone overtones. By the shuttered door
Of an abandoned smoke shop, two denizens of the lesser order
Of Thrones or Dominations toss pennies at a crack in the sidewalk.
Time on their hands, they loiter in conspicuous violation
Of universal law and normative moral intuition.
Theirs is neither power nor glory. Theirs is the holy boredom
That hovers like incense over the hierarchies of creation.
No cause for alarm. Brass knuckles are redundant here. Snap
Your fingers forever on the backbeat, never on the one or the three. 
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