City Streets

crumpled cardboard and a Marks-a-lot

declare his hunger

His eyes close as I walk by,

but not before I glimpse and find

dulled resignation glazed with apathy

and I want to give him money

but I fear I'll feed a monkey on his back rather than his belly

Instead,

I give the wicked, dirty money

to the street performer drumming

on a plastic bucket and a metal can

because his rhythm provokes, incites, excites

puts a swagger in my step

I bob and sway to its primitive beat

and watch, as he closes his eyes too

this man lost in the pleasure of his music

and I like the smile that crosses his face

unbidden and heartfelt. Pure joy

So sweet I feel it too

Still,

I cannot push the first man from my brain

and I wonder where he lays tonight