Thank you, kind sir

Some crusty old man approaches me one day.

Nothing compels—not pity—my stay,

I see red rimming his moistened, sleep-deprived eyes,

yet I stand transfixed as his cigarette dies.

He coughs and asks for only one thing

Will I listen to his song? The only song he can wring

out of his bones, into the air, for me

for them, for all the world to see.

I open my ears and the old man stands tall

He opens his mouth, I welcome the fall

of languid squalor, such dulcet tones.

It says, I have been there, and I am alone.