Woodwind blew October’s early leaves, notes lifting the dead down the street.
There had been a multitude of deaths. Embarrassment. Pride. Nothing worthy of sorrow.
Michael Jeffrey Jenkins stared at the street sax. The musician wailed on it as if no one was around. There was a crowd, larger than the crowd around him a half day ago as MJ joggled weightless over the sidewalk. MJ figured a larger crowd must have been the attitude as well as musicianship.
photo by Daniel Agee. all rights reserved.
New York City’s got it going.
He thought as his father drove them back home. Home without mother. There were plenty of talented musicians on the streets of New York. He’d seen a few in the few years he had traversed cracked concrete. Guitarists seemed to be the most populous.
They’re popular.
Son, they’re populous. See the crowd around guitarists?
Not really.
You won’t. There’re too many guitarists around. Too many thins crowds. It may be a popular thing to do among musicians, but too populous to catch a crowd. Catch me? Read the rest of this page »
