O n  t h e  E v e

o f   A n e w

by Adam Kavulic


See the after city,
ash covered benches, slivers of windows,
crabgrass through pavement, gaping holes in the
old marble of mighty.

A store of vintage designs
once supporting shelves of cultures,
tattered shirts, torn posters, weed vines,
mangled patches of coat furs.

Dazed, wandering, without a care,
inside that slanted store,
in the dust of disrepair,
a longhaired man circles the floor.

Maple tops, mahogany backs,
rosewood fingerboards, Firebursts.


Without eyes, only sockets,
rows of nude mannequins
glare at the man who selects
from the instruments of sins.

One guitar bears no name, no company.
The man, with familiar fingers, strums it.
The music echoes like a symphony
of history, beckoning, a pulpit.

He stops, raises his arm, slashes,
the strings with a thundering A
as the mannequins watch,
hopeless, helpless, danceless.