A Busker
The ragged, dirty jeans,
Six other people wore,
Bangle from his hip
Bones, inked, and scraped – by
Rough cement and kicks
From cops checking his
Pulse on their beat –
As he accompanies
His tired voice with guitar,
Strapped across his chest
Bone, inked, and bruised – by
Stone curbs and tussles
From bums throwing down
For turf on stoops –
And his song is heard by
Every passerby.
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