Flower Drum Corner
by Patricia Wellingham-Jones


On one corner a flower stand,
long stems of roses, iris,
carnations cluster in buckets.
Workers grab mixed bouquets
as they hustle home.

On the corner opposite
a young man sits
on a blue plastic crate,
shaved brown pate gleaming
in the San Francisco sun.

His drumsticks pound rhythms
on five gallon buckets upside down,
his drums the colors of flowers
they once held. Tourists gather,
move thick bodies to the music.

For tympani he uses a copper bowl,
aluminum pot "bottoms up"
and stirs a box lid
full of bottle caps
with his stick.

The flower seller latches
the sides of his stall, goes home
to dinner with his kids.
Traffic ebbs, night people drift
along darkening streets.

The drummer stacks his orchestra,
ties plastic crates together with rope,
picks up silver tossed in a cap and,
hoisting gear in arms weak from rhythm,
fades like the ghost of a note into an alley.






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