He keeps a flute in his boot.
Plays it for strangers, listens for little crashes of loot.
Sleeps on a stone bench near the ocean.
Sometimes he gets drunk , hollers, causes commotion.
Some days he ***** about
in his loose oversized castoff suit
looking as if he might fly
or cry when the sun shines blindness
across his two *** eyes.
Passersby know not
that once he brought the house down
with Ellington in a jazzy joint in Harlem town.

Hear the eee eee eee and the eee eee eep!
black sheep gathered on a curbside street
to blow piccolos from cavities deep
to let jaunty tunes fill the skid row streets.

lacey sea foam tossing through windy air

aging man with walking stick and poet's mop of gray hair trudges through sand...
halts, leaning on his stick , observing an old woman with shriveled body
and age-riddled skin stretched out on a giant towel trying to get a tan

[Title Card: Maybe this man, old tattler, esteemed former laureate, is wondering if he could make a sonnet out of this sight. ]

he walks on, stooping to pick up a conch shell near his feet
looks at it, turns it clock and counter, peers into it

holds shell to ear
starts slow meditative amble towards mist-waving distance

[Title Card: Doesn't it seem he might be hearing humming of every thing's destiny in the brittle pink alleys?]

air
not
breathed
nor
folded
hands
feel