No matter the time his music is heard,
for an audience, never ending, moves there.
He sits legs crossed, head bowed, eyes closed, with his
fingers dancing across strings much too old.
Of twenty, two may offer up a smile,
for most he fails to penetrate the fog
of morning rush, for some their phones hold sway.
Yet still he strums, his beat builds evermore,
till sweat beads down his brow and heads bob around.
From time to time he claims a new passerby
for his own, he feels their pace quicken to
match rapid meter. His once empty pail now
boastfully pings a matching melody.
When the drum of shoes has ended the hour
he dreads has nigh arrived, for he who plays
for faceless crowds, for food and drink, has not
a home with which to rest, yet still he may
be found, fingers dancing, legs crossed, eyes closed,
Monday through Sunday down in Tribunal.
Alex Novaa 3/19/14