The Rumproller

There is a great banging coming from inside the brewery,
while out here in the sun my blood knocks at the blue
ceilings of my veins like an irate tenant in the apartment
one floor down unprepared for that first blast of Lee
Morgan's trumpet as The Rumproller kicks off its assault
on the funk-deprived asses of Butler Street. The outdoor
benches are bare of shade and the spring-shocked trees
of Allegheny Cemetery, absent their green regalia
stand there in a stupor. Goddamn, it's really gonna happen!
The winter has donned its shabby hat and shown itself
the door. They arrive like Romero's contribution
to our everlasting pulp canon. The sun and this last day
of March crawling around their faces, ready for renewal,
eager for sex and the gauzy delinquent decisions of warm days
and warmer more spectacular nights. A nod is all we need
to say we survived. The world didn't end, and that was not
guaranteed. Touch my hand, put your hand to my cheek.
I'm so happy to see you again. The sun is shaking its
beautiful fat ass all across the sky. Etiquette demands
we do the same.

Kristofer Collins is the Books Editor for Pittsburgh Magazine and the publisher of Low Ghost Press.