When the world is a song

and the pigeons cooing are the cool old bass player in the back corner of the stage, sunglasses on as ever, shading him from the world, the world he keeps a quiet tempo for, asking for nothing more than a crumb here and there.

And the beat up old four door wriggling & writhing through traffic horn blaring & horns blaring back are the trumpet & sax players, all blowing their top for G-d knows why but them, & maybe not even them but if they stop everyone knows that the Great Hand that winds the clock will stop too, & there will be silence