He leans back
against a brick wall
on a three legged chair
playing the harmonica.
Angels pause at the sound.
Traffic passes unnoticed.
The sound is gold in his mind.
He thinks of words despite
detractions.
There is an overpass of thin
weaving clouds.
The sun warms his hands.
Pigeons rustle their wings
with feathered cymbals
blessing his sound
His eyes are closed. He
dreams of visions, familiar
and sad.
It’s how he escapes without
leaving.
Roger Singer 