The drums come from the back of the band the rhythm Jamaican the poet drifts to the microphone: “I killed a cowboy today I didn’t mean it.”
We, the audience, shift over-hot in the room but pliant leaning into the beat as the poet sucks us in with the lilt of his accent blending word and note: “I killed a cowboy today Thought they was dead you know.”
The trombonist with her lips tight on the mouthpiece, the guitar man nodding in sync the band loudens and softens watching the poet run this dream.
He is reeling us in like a tame shark the whole lot of us over-eager, awkward, ready to fall in love.
FE Walls
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