One thought on “Plutarch / David Jibson”

1. i have a poem in there, also:

   ARGOS ON ROYAL STREET

   Down in front of this nine-piece band

   playing old-time jazz on Royal Street

   lies a slow yellow dog, seemingly

   unfazed by clarinet, trumpet, and trombone

   blaring right over his head, or

   the washboard’s hollow ratchet and pock.

   Sometimes he climbs to his feet, plods

   around behind the group, pauses

   to scratch a flank, and flops back down.

   He ignores dancers who whirl to the music

   and those passing who stop to feed

   the donation box or buy a CD. You see him

   in nearly every band video; he never barks

   or runs off in search of better entertainment.

   Even if he’s deaf as a post, you’d think

   the vibrations might get to him—

   the foot-stomping of all the seated players

   or the tuba’s burped concussion of the air.

   Something mythical must be going on;

   I’m thinking he’s Argos

   recognizing his master despite

   Odysseus’ beggar disguise

   and twenty years’ absence:

   this band for all their ragbag get-ups—

   squashed hats, wired hair, cut-offs with

   combat boots, flowered dress with knee socks—

   are music masters worth following to any street

   where they choose to set up busking and play.

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