Poem: Tribunal, Madrid, Spain


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