A man sits on the corner
with his guitar.
Music comes out of his fingers.
You walkers by are walking past and try
hard to
tune him out.
He does not ask for your money,
yet you look ashamedly away.
He does not beg you for food,
yet you throw it to him
from your car.
He is not poor.
Not cold.
Not hungry.
Only lonely.
He sits with his guitar
named Jenny
and pulls at her strings
so she will talk to him.
They talk about
love, and loss,
and the blueness of the world.
She speaks the words the man cannot,
and the man nods and listens and cries.
His heart too depressed to
work
bathe
mend the tear on the
left shoulder of his shirt.
He is not poor.
Not cold.
Not hungry.
Only lonely,
looking for someone to
sit down and listen.
But you walkers by
turn your heads fiercely,
and litter his lap with
food stamps and wrinkled dollar bills.