My unseen, poetic collaborator, talent extraordinaire.

She writes of the homeless man we pass on the street,
to which I add a word, a line or two, for who among us has never once wondered, there but for the grace of god, go you or I....


a tin cup, a beat up guitar
memories, all sepia colored,
little of his older life,
the few days left,
close by, not far,
the remains of the day,
he calls them,
his ha ha, happily ever after.

once he thought maybe after
the next song, he'll belong,
for his melody sung
in the key of despair,
but the refrain, sung with flair,
après la guerre,
ever hopeful, ever after

no passerby fails to stop,
penny or dollar, each produces,
his voice, so sad, seduces
each fearful of the sound,
but comforted by his
last words, that stick
to them, ever after.

yet, he's happy, he has a voice,
cold concrete beneath his extremities
reminds him of his lost choices,
a life begun, flowing with expectancies,
soon expected to conclude, yet,
he does not complain of life's inequities.

no matter what the tune,
no matter what the key,
no matter what the rhythm,
no matter what the beat,
his every song always ends
with words of no mean feat.

He sings:

**tho bad luck, poor choices
have brought me to
a life upon the ground,
yet I wake each morn,
kiss my stony bed,
for I am happy for,
just to be alive,
always happy, ever after.