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


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






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