Drummer
Kim Grobe
The black man
sits crosslegged
on the gritty cement curb
of the corner.
San Francisco lights
illuminate the sidewalk
into a glowing stretch
of pearl squares.
He cradles two drums
in his lap
and with pink palms flashing
in the dusty haze
sends out thumping rhythms
that drift endlessly.
The string of orange beads
around his neck
sparkle as he sways
back and forth.
The beat of drums
float out into the city
and settle nowhere.
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