A battered and scarred Guitar strung tightly across his back,
faded and torn army surplus jacket beneath,
covering a tattered blue-check shirt,
all hanging loosely
on this unwashed survivor of Life.
Walking the bricks,
he turns his tricks.
Begging-here and Busking-there,
eyes hidden behind a scratched pair of mirrored sunglasses,
as so to hide from the charity-giver’s stare.
Wandering about, begging this and that,
he finds a spot and unsheathes his only love
… tune’s it with a tickle.
Then…he plays a song.
Caressing his guitar
All his heart suddenly cries-out,
… and all the shopper’s walk on by .
In his mind,
The rags he wears become stitched with gold,
cold brick beneath becomes a stage,
strewn with light and lasers
other musicians and roadies
and the people of his special world before him look on,
calling his name,
… giving the love he has never received.
In his hands,
this man holds his life…
Michael John Kildare