Saturday, December 27, 2014

His plastic cup between his legs
he plays music in the dark
plucking an imagined keyboard.
Notes line up in his mind
each awaiting its turn,
and his fingers release
them from bondage
into the Michoacan air
and the ears of
passersby who now and then
toss a coin in his cup.
On the wooden chair
he perches like
potted plant on a stand.
Stone walls behind him
stone streets under
his feet. Every stone
unturned. Laid there
by ancient hands. To
be walked on, 
to be leaned against.

R. Rios

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