Dropping dimes
like the tears of the masters;
their notes hang heavy,
thick, still;
their passion passing through
each unimportant extremity--
ones made into heroes
by the death of themselves.
They're dropping dimes
onto the hot asphalt.
They're dropping to their knees
for the masters of the teachers.
They're eating the rhythm,
they're sleeping the blues,
they're breathing the music
and becoming brand new.
Alas!
They do not know;
not even do I,
or you as you crawl, linger, and fade
that they're larger than life
becoming the masters
as we hear the clink
of their dropping dimes.
