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Common Ground
2003-09-11 - 6:49 p.m.


before/after
strangely non-functional guestbook

I sat on the street,

outside the coffee shop,

playing my notes

for the city.

I see nothing grand about the town,

I see no rapids

named thus, populated

by hardworking folk,

negroes of all description

filed past,

listening to me play

but like everyone else

much too cool

show me that they were listening

unaware of the musician's rapport

with everything his music touches

knowing when you shift in your seat.

my soul drifts out amongst

the riff raff, the drug dealers

the passers-by,

making love to the city

hoping for a home.


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