(An ode to Boston street musicians)
Perform to sidewalks
caked with forgotten humanity
—crushed styrofoam cups, burger wrappers, cigarette butts—
in pavement cracks;
Kintsugi through music.
Demand the space for your beauty.
For if you stop,
who else will I listen to
on a windy Thursday night
waiting for the T at Chinatown?
Is he cursing at his god?
He slings a slurry of swear words to the heavens,
gradually increasing his passion as he continues to curse.
He’s visibly drunk,
motions slurred and unwieldly,
like a baby learning how to move for the first time.
Greasy grey hair hangs thinly around his rosy cheeks,
but I’m too ashamed to look at him,
too afraid to provoke,
so I don’t catch the color of his exasperated, almost pleading eyes.
And he’s begging for what?
For a god to answer his anger?
For a friend to help fuel his thoughtless fury?
to meet the gaze of his eyes?
I can’t help but empathize with his soul shattering, empty rage.
But I can’t help,
so I file off the train.