Two Clothespins Poem by Rich Harney

Two clothespins held the August heat
and several hundred more
the stories
of sweat and poverty
between Harlem windows.

A few notes
decidedly un— blue,
joyous,
rode the stifling air
up up to windows
of broken down tenements.

James P.
was working a shout,
some Carolina thing
he thought.

A clothesline ballet
was also splitting
the same cranky ether.

Fats lent all the
beautiful, bouncing,
dancing buns
wiggling
in the evening heat
a gladder than happy
reprieve
from clothespin
dominations
and children—
screaming for more.

A rent party later,
tubs of gin,
and innumerable choruses
of Ain't Misbehavin'
rendered all thoughts
of clothespins
(not ballets)
and Harlem heat
impertinent.

The music of life
always changes things.