He traipses and thumps on the pavement, soaked
and swirling himself
into a sweet, succulent stupor. I watch
as the hems of his walls begin to weave
slowly-
just around his feet and barely at the tips of his earthy fingernails
at first. With the turns he makes,
the street lamps make flash floods of light
upon the many plates of his figure.
And in a sudden, endearing jump of body and sound,
his voice electrically pierces the hollow clearing.
It cracks at the peak of his jazz ballad, as it normally would not
as the decibels swell-
playing wildly with the air,
climbing higher than his rhythmically swaying arms.
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