trout

Drummer at the White Palace

Josh Goodwin

At dusk
Snell Street bends to snatch its feet
Twilight shoulders its collapse
Cobblestones assimilate

Snell Street
A low breath in an empty throat
The empty light of television
Estranged voices

Footsteps
Repeating from his cloth shoes
The boy catches the neon rain
Of hollow broadcasts

Speaking
Moskva, a paralysis of his own
Snowfall in the Red Square
On the news

Something has happened.

Moskva
Moskva, colours of his first steps
Pieces of whatever tragedy
Colourless

Snell Street
A pinpoint on the collective soul
Shows Moskva on the evening news
He remembers

His drumsticks gather
Like broken crayons.