Rehearsal

The leader, black and impenetrable as Pluto, waves
in the leading rhythm, with whistle.
About 12 boys around 14 years old furnish beats,
as Pluto leads and circulates, correcting.
One in front on a snare, laughs, goes off, and is brought
back by a firm grab of the throat.
Another grins from ear to ear, and stays in.
Their lithe bodies practice a music as a sport, dark blue
sky and Copacabana beach behind them.
A girl is Pluto’s favorite. She dances quick
fragments, then walks, and gives cigarette to each
boy to suck. She is beautiful, in tight blue
beach pants, long hair. This is Brazilian
hip hop, street music, each beat is meant
to cut. Now Pluto takes a carved wooden dagger
from his girl and holds
it four inches from a musician’s eye.
Three very young black kids watch, as they would
break dancers in New York, eagerly:
one wearing a t-shirt with the face of Lennon and the single word
“Lives.” The music has a new flair, as all street style must,
a new thrust Pluto is orchestrating.
People gather to watch it—it is music, and functions
in different ways. In a pause, Pluto picks up
a pair of red boxing gloves. In a couple of years, his girl
will look weathered, maybe bitter, Her breasts
will be sad. But tonight, while the boys play, she is perfect.