Kat Calvosa: Listen

• MP3 short clip, hi-fi play (broadband)

Far beneath the bustle of the angry city street,
A man in lonesome reverie assumes the pose of peaceful sleep.
As if in silent protest to the noise,
Of heavy feet and turnstile coins.
His daydreams click and clack in rhythm with the track,
That rarely or never will quite take him back.
And the Brooklyn Dodger waits his turn -
It’s too early to begin.

Around the bend the subway roars with barely pent up rage,
Its passengers are trapped inside like batters in a cage.
In his mind he sees the face,
Of a pitcher with a run on base.
Who picks his target, stares him down, and takes his careful aim
In his mind he hears the roar of storied grandstand fame.
And the Brooklyn Dodger waits his turn -
No man on and no runs earned.

He wishes for a time and place on any other base
He wishes for a different life, without so many strikes
He wishes for all this and more, but all he sees coming toward him is a door…

Years have passed and still he longs and sighs,
For canyons filled with songs and ticker-tape good-byes.
His muslin dreams are fading fast,
He joins the moving crowd at last.
With pitcher’s grace the man in blue begins his daily chase.
“If you can spare a dollar sir, it would not go to waste.”
And the Brooklyn Dodger waits his turn
For now his dreams are at an end.