I, sitting at my table, mindlessly
picking at my spaghetti -- the accordion
billowing a tune
of days long past -- staring
at this music man,
the way his lip doesn’t quiver
when he plays a beautiful song but
no one claps, and I,
wondering, why he plays, every night,
for an audience that does not
listen, and then, considering, perhaps,
he is not playing for
the audience.