FAMILY STORY

River wind blows diesel pall
over the bronze general and horse in the square.
Shuffle here, scuffle there, old men and early drunks keep time
while a conga line curls around the fountain.
They bang coffee tins marked AIDS,
small change for those living through a plague.

The voice of Satchmo carries over the courtyard walls
bright blessed days, dark sacred nights cross
outcroppings of glass that sharpen each locked garden's secret.
Street vendors match ripe red strawberries
with shouts of collard greens;
bucket of Pine Oil sloshes down on the chilled spring ground.

The Cathedral choir sings to the prayerful,
stained-glass bright with another's sad family story.
palm fronds click like dice in the breeze.
Hope against hope.
What a wonderful world:
the crowning wish scratching its way
up and out of Satchmo's earnest throat.

Mounted police side-step down the street
and up to Harmonica Man to say no more money-gathering
till noon. The man yells back, the whole goddamn
church's just infested with Green Berets.
With that, he settles down, sits down,
and gives a last tuneful huff to "Mr.Bojangles".