“It isn’t hard to
have a little soul.
All you need is a
something to tap
your toes to,” said the DJ in
a deep and wide baritone.
“A beat that makes
your hips sway,
A rhythm that makes
your head bob.
A bass you feel all over,” he continued
in his chasm like voice.
“You’ll find your soul
Bouncing off the walls
of your groove house,” smiled the DJ.
I got up from my seat and
listened for my soul. I could
usually hear it in “Try a Little
Tenderness”, or, “Land of 1000
Dances”, or even, “Shake your
My “groove house” was vacant.
My soul was being quiet, it seems
he was smoking out in the alley,
talking with the other old souls about
Frank, Buddy and Gary Cooper and
trying to be 1958 cool.
“Get back in here,” I shouted through
a cracked bar room window.
He ignored me, waved me off without
looking my direction. He blew thick
blue smoke into the air.
“I promise not to get too funky,” I said.
My soul turned and looked at me, with
almost pity on his face.
“Okay, okay, no funkiness,” I said.
My soul smiled and dropped his smoke
to the alley, mashed it with his shoe.
Little did my soul know, that everything
was going to be funky. And in my soul’s
soul. I knew he’d dig it.