His sheet of music
was a damp
scrap.
Lazily placed on
the ground
to his left.
His violin
whined slow
& sincere
While engines overhead
roared toward
Springfield.

But that was nonsense.
This was real.

Reminded me of
tough, lucky
Stew.
A fighter & a
fiddler in his
own right.
This muddied man clouded the air
With a mournful
story that
defeated all wisdom.
I drank coffee
afterward in a
small shop.

But the warmth was gone.