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Just Below 30 Degrees

There he stood on the median
of the busy four lane avenue,
two snare drums poised before him,
nimble drumsticks dancing
in his gloved hands.

I had heard the music
before I actually saw him,
cars muffling the sound a bit,
hiding him behind travelers
off to work or shopping,
warm behind rolled-up windows
and gently vented air.

I couldn't read his posted sign
as the traffic flowed by.
I couldn't take in his face
but only caught sight of his gloves,
one pale blue, the other gray
hopping about like injured birds
trying to take flight with frozen wings
as the temperature of the biting air hovered
just below 30 degrees.

Style / type: 
Free verse
Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage: 
Content level: 
Not Explicit Content


I hear the music, the air rent by the sharp, staccato notes!
The blue and grey gloves reminiscent of Civil War uniforms hopping about on the field of battle.
Symbolism at its best. ~ Geez.

Writing purely for oneself, is the ultimate in defensive posture.

I was one lane over, and it all seemed in slow motion while watching and passing those gloves. Thank you for reading, and your thoughts and interpretation.

author comment

You’re making us look like amateurs. I’m gonna come read this a few more times. This is the mind of an artist at work. It might contain one of the best similes I’ve read in a minute.

Great observational poetry!

So much in front of us is living poetry. Thank you for your kind words!

author comment

I can see and hear him...can Invision the bustling traffic on the road and on foot, blocking him from total view. Great job!


He was an impressive image, and it was so cold. Thank you for reading.

author comment

a perfect frozen moment. a perfect poem, too.

He was like a painting, and music, and words all in one art form.
Thank you!

author comment
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