Just East of Vine
Ry Kincaid
The dance of the drumstick on
oversized ride cymbals—that
is the jazz just east of Vine.
The bass starts his walk, trumpet
skips right beside. Three sirens
scream loudly, just east of Vine.
Kick drum bang sing
Shot riff curse swing
Bird blew to New York, well east
of Vine. Then death blew him back.
We be proud, Charlie Parker.
The smokeless bar (now)—smoking
scat strikes us cats. Can this be
the jazz that’s just east of Vine?
Ry Kincaid’s poems appear in recent or upcoming
issues of The Honey Land Review, Poetry Flyer, and The
Battered Suitcase. His historical baseball play, The Rajah of
Saint Louis, debuted last year. Kincaid lives in Kansas City, Missouri.