Broad stripes on plain clothes.
Worn away patches creased with dirt.
They pass him daily there as he plays his song.
His old song.
His song on the corner.
His music in the crowds.
So little he has to offer – ignored – but not his song.
It shines in ways he can’t.
It stuns, and moves, and breathes the life of dreams gone by.
It is his home.
It’s his strength.
And so little he has to offer – left to sleep and live in the cold – but not his song.
It warms him, and raises him for his purpose.
It picks him up from the cold hard street.
So much it has to offer him, and he the vessel.
And he plays on.
Music fading to quiet as I walk on and scenes change.