Within the organ of organize,
mess and music in equal parts,
even the blood of strangers can thrum
in concert, calling and responding.
Once, at the base of this embankment,
I almost drove right over a man
who rasped and flailed, prone in the street.
I almost kept on driving, too.
An encampment-neighbor said, he’s gone
on crank, won’t listen, call 911.
The cop who cuffed him told us all
to relax, wait for the ambulance.
We waited, watching him shake. We saw
his tallest neighbor approach, saying
in low tones here, by me, settling
a bucket, coaxing him to sit;
witnessed that neighbor cradle the head,
ease water through the battered lips.
Now, responding to scent whose call
persists through smog, bee after bee
ascends above the freeway, crossing
in fugue to ironweed beyond.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 24, Issue 2.
Michael Jones teaches in Oakland (CA) public schools. His poetry appears in journals such as Atlanta Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, Salamander, and Sugar House, and in a chapbook, Moved (Kattywompus, 2016).
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