I walked along the sidewalk today,

     Dancing     along    the   squirreling cracks.

And I heard a feeling, a man with a 

             harmonica

Through the curtains of sweeping feet.

Breathing a song heard between the voices

of a lonesome city, a maple leaf’s last 

                 stand

against the cooling winds of autumn.

He had created his own earth,

Sodden cardboard slick to the curb,

            rebirthing the soil

covered by our concrete shield 

protecting us from our 

       own mother.

A river of tobacco hovers above the crowd,

          the only audience.

Frayed holes in his indigo knit sweater,

                      callused hands, skeletons held to his lips

of tree bark.

Eyes, aged like parchment, flitting closed,

soft                                     like butterflies flight

shoulders swaying to a rhythm

perhaps only                                    an angel dances to.

I continue walking.