Asphalt amphitheatre in Memphis
The current of flesh moving like a troop of platelets
On through the clogged artery of Beale Street
I drop a crumpled five into a fedora, thinking
Your voice is the music missing tonight
Your face lit up in dirty arc-sodium pallid orange
But you never liked Memphis for Christmas
I reflect that I don't believe I know you anymore.
The Mississippi, I argued again
Plays the only holiday tune I ever want to hear
And you're in Alabama with the kids
I shuffle to another street performance dimly lit
As the bass player strikes up an old tune.
The snow drifts down around me and I recollect the beat.
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