damp hours dried by coexistence these
trumpet calls reverberate
through century-old buildings but
not everyone can follow the horns.
so a few of us linger
in the empty square, dry to the
onlooker but we have soul.
strung up in alleyways laundry lady
shouting, man giving man money
for an act.
the act of giving for the act of busking. we
reward ourselves for our humanity,
even those of us who can’t sing.
