I gathered the details of a sidewalk pass

people moving in opposite directions

scattered candy wrappers and cigarette butts

the sculpture of the cracked pavement—

a passageways for ants.

These were the things I remember, these and the warm

filters of sunlight, the picture of which were never

captured by a lone soulful musician.

No one steps in his little Mecca of cardboard boxes

flattened to make a makeshift bed at night.

He has this precise way of strumming

his guitar, singing duets with every passing whoosh

of skirts and pants. He sits there

as the strings whistle their way from his fingers

to the loud clanging of coins engraved

with faces of heroes and great men.

Their images help secure an emaciated hope—

a hope thrown in by his well-dressed gods

as their blind morsel of compassion.

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