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Poems by Dan Sicoli
harboro street
on harboro street
we'd huddle
not to strategise
but to survive
skin taut and learned
we had tongues and horns
and could load our god-machines
shake magic out of
any man's pocket
it was a southern thing
the monks of rhythm smuggled north
after a war
after a man got pay
and a train car
to gain legacy
to become nickel kings
spawning homespun dogma
in our sunday suits
we'd dip a bucket in the long waterway
and drink
the rain that fell from europe
from africa
where once our drums were feared
and our spoken voices commanded empire
on harboro street
we were called daddies
and headhunters
baptized in night sweat
we were players and swingers
drunkards and healers
pawned atop piles of rubble
who'd left the quagmire of the past
under hobo footsteps and iron slats
only to let it bristle up
in song
in psalm
©2003 Dan Sicoli
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