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November 7, 2020


late on the familiar balcony
I spy a musician
– cannot see –
as he turns the corner
and plays his whistling riff
over the beat of his ponderous steps

a beautifulsad phrase
on an ancient whistle
I know as a recorder

and I rush downstairs
to honour
– with small money –
a working musician

and he stops
– is gracious –
then ambles forward
in stately blindness
at the furthest left of the street,
one motorcycle length from the curb

he is passed at pace
by sellers of village food
– creepycrawlies so challenging to the outsider –
and the more sophisticated street food
idles and sizzles by,
seafood and other exotica
feeding the workers of the night

the musician shuffles on
his tune blending with the
YouTube of the bars,
and it fades slowly as he proceeds
slowly east towards the river

the floating, sad, delicate melody
can still be heard
from the balcony
15 minutes later,
as he still shuffles on down the block

he takes his music with him
but leaves a little behind
as we all strive to do

are we heard 15 minutes later? 

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