(observations from Pike Place Market)
He plays his soul each day
To us - for a kind word,
Some quarters in a cup.
As he sits in his blue windbreaker,
His blonde ponytail
Falls against his scraggly beard,
Keeping time while he plays
Perched upon the rusty, silver stool
That wobbles loosely with the rhythms.
Strong, soiled hands, blanketed
by fingerless, brown gloves,
Revitalize the keys of his battered piano.
His feet beat
Atop the wooden block
He uses as a footrest,
As he collects,
Day after day after day,
His small fortune of coins
In a bowl, paper-mached with duct tape.
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