Oscar Peterson Plays: All Year.

I catch a peripheral glimpse of you
sliding down an octave, seemingly serene: 
as thousands pass in transit,
you’re playing virtuoso licks in E.

Winter

Greeting frozen four-AMs down Elgin,
me shuffling,
as snowflakes Charleston through the orange street lights 
to join the road-grey neat-rowed audience
gath’ring on the ground.
Cackling, ‘cause you’re as cold as you’ll ever get,
and I’m neckless, pockets-deep.

Spring

Just so self-satisfied,
now that the rain
and salt and soggy leaves and compostable chip bags
can’t send you reeling, out of tune.
Weather bestows a
distinct patina,
and we weather.

Summer

Mirth tinkled out,
all schadenfreude upper register,
as tourists line up to burn their backsides,
as they sit and squint southbound for a photo-op:
fingers stroking knee.

Autumn

The dirt-toned maple leaves, in piles 
behind the legs of your half-a-Grand
leave you unperturbed,
and slightly larger than a normal man;
we’re listening in for secrets:
how to get, and get degrees, 
and get cast in bronze 
outside the NAC.

© Wes Babcock