I stand and watch the man,
middle-aged, slightly balding,
and with a sprinkle of white in his beard,
as he opens his violin case,
pulls out the worn, old instrument
and begins to play.
You can see such sights all over.
The subways are my favorite spot,
the little children clinging to mothers’ arms
and staring wide eyed at the man with the
An easy way to make a cheap living,
I can’t help but wonder, does he have children?
Little mouths to feed?
Perhaps just a mangy dog lying on his master’s bed,
waiting for a bone and a fresh bowl of water.
He plays for hours while I sit on the park bench
across the street.
I can barely hear the clink of loose change
falling into his open case, “Donations welcome”
Opening my wallet, I pull out a handful of Franklins,
he seems to need them more than I.
I make my way across the lazy street, hoping to catch him
before he can pack his life away.
A motion from his hand,
the black streak of a limousine.
He looks up, smiles at me,
then disappears into oblivion.