The Busker

"If music be the food of love, play on." - William Shakespeare

The busker sits against the wall,
A little hat at his feet.
It is a busy day, heaving,
As he faces into the heat
Of the Spanish plume above,
Weighing heavy over his denim-clad chest.
Still, the smiling chap plays on,
This noise, this poise crafting his best.

He strums out his simple tunes
For a penny or two, he asks no more
Of the passers-by who turns their heads
From his misplaced allure.
Conviction comes from his lungs
And passion pours from his eyes.
Lyricism drifts from his mouth
And he soars. He flies.

The music man is an oracle,
Profanes with his unworthiest hand
And makes sweet melody to his love.
The chords echo in this bustling land;
No one hears him
But he is not singing for the crowd.
I pay him not a penny, but my time
To his heart, beating out, beating loud.