• 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.