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PARADISE IN A CORNER
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.
