We hear him first
two blocks away, past Grand Avenue
the din of a parallel freeway, his bass and back up.
Loud, small, young, maybe 14 he plays alone,
nested in a 5-pc kit, on a throne, sidewalk street corner
while hundreds run, tightrope-walk-balance, drive
play soccer around him.
Hard hitting and lush
his tempos tame time in waves that roll
connecting our smiles from inside out before moving
across the Lake into open windows and back through
the Farmer’s market and up on beyond blue where
hungry stars and planets await this little gift
© Tara Linda 2016