Waltzing with a white rose,
Freshly picked and de-thorned,
Twirling like a fallen leaf in September,
My eyes lacquered in a vicarious dream.
A peddler on the boardwalk,
Where the ocean continuously breathes,
Pours out a sonata that
Tames the waves.
And when I am in his presence,
He sits, legs crossed and stares through me;
An aged acoustic guitar wedged in between
His rugged lap and his frail chest.
I reach in my back pocket for my wallet.
-Save your pity for someone else.
Disheveled, discolored beard,
Teeth coated in decades of nicotine,
Hands hold a tremble,
Eyes dark as a widow.
The peddler begins to play again.
His left foot bobbing to the beat,
Fingers dancing up and down the fretboard
with an uncanny agility.
He turns his face to the sky,
And expels a grizzly voice from deep within his lungs.
I sit down cross-legged,
close my eyes,
And nine minutes escape my clutches.
When the melodies end,
He lays his guitar on the ground,
-It’s not for the money.
The peddler pulls himself off the ground,
and picks up his instrument.
Leaving me behind with an
And the sting of simplicity,
My thoughts still musing on what just occurred,
He disappears beyond my view.