The Day After the Concert
It is a ragpickers’ feast
a crows’ horn of plenty.
Delighted urchins suck plastic cups
rims and lips sticky with yesterday’s sugar.
They double-dutch over green glass,
treasure dive for keys and coins,
and soda can tab rings with which to pledge
The grass has started springing back,
a full cycle completed--
trampled by the dancing,
the music of those feet has nonetheless
Its purpose has been met
in thousands of grinding heel tips,
cigarette butts and the seismic after effects of many bass lines.
The grime too vibrates,
an after-tune of pan pipes;
the adrenaline has drenched it
from drops of sweat and gargles of water.
In corners, the beetles feast on
yesterday’s bile and morsels of too-much.
There is glitter here too, tempting
with the smile of fool’s gold.
The after images of twirling skirts
and light, trumpets and guitar picks,
speckle sunlit tar.
This cornucopia will sustain an underbelly’s
for a few days to come.
Poet's Notes: At the outskirts of the city in which I live, there is a huge, barren field, where the undergrowth sprouts refuse, street urchins play, and the homeless seek transitory rest. A few times a year, this field is transformed into a fairytale playground for the privileged. Their opulent cars line its sides, and in the center many musicians from around the world perform. The day after this concert, the ground returns to its hardscrabble origins but provides a banquet of leftovers for days after to its original inhabitants.
Editor’s Note: I was immediately reminded of a scene from Charlotte's Web https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-bTSs3hTNRE as I read this entertaining yet sobering poem.