"Vagrant Song—Boston Players" by David Blair

 Saturday night, the white Lord & Taylor still open,and the modern wing of the library had driven agroundits white hull into pedestrian space—its only cramped spreein the restaurants rubbed away by suburban pleasure-seekersand conventioneers and college students, those who greet eyesand the returners of stares, the Morse code of the antennaeon top of the buildings—men, women, women, men, women,women, men, men, men, women, women—under heat-lampsover strong under-wires uplifting and proffering more breadand awnings of sudden hotels, in whose dark shine a river coilsblack and colder than the crushed ice, clams, lobsters, bottles,up through the cobalt parking space of each monk's bright cellthat subdivides wall-less floors of the concrete parking towers,basic and beautiful buildings, unpretentiously for the night."Your body is a paradise/ your body is a paradise," a vagrantshook his cup by the Symphony 7-11.  After another knock-outthe big conductor, you can say, had great small feet, rollingquickly on the high stool. He left the stage like a champ,holding both hands up in the air to the side of his head.You could hear a rattle of dice somewhere in there,ghost players on a phantom train. So many violin playerswere in the bushes. The young ladies with their celloswere wide open to the music. Backstage, they were crankingsalsa and hip hop, playing grab-ass, snapping jocks and ties.