Until I Had to Sing

Seems you hugged this corner
for years, bedraggled head dipped
over your guitar, a beat-up job you hugged,
a child. Your sweet soulful song filled

my ears, made my fingers thump
frets on my thigh, a beat contrary to
your tapping feet. Your eyes twitched to
the slung open case, nervous-like,
to slim bills tumbled in coffee-stained velvet.

Every few songs you scooped the coins
into jean pockets, a swift, measured stroke.

I perched on the stone wall nursing
my smoke, watching other passersby
toss a quarter, or not. Later, at home,

I pulled out my Fender, unplugged and
strummed, thinking of you, notes spinning,
where you slept after your gig.

Never threw a buck your way.
Not once all those years.

Didn’t know the sweet sound of coins
thudding in a can, not until
I had to sing for my bed.


***

Prompt: Until _____

Not sure where this idea came from.


Peace, Linda