Image from Wikipedia

His fingers spidering up and down the frets
Tease morsels of purity from sound.
You would never know that he eats from dumpsters,
Lives in a vacant lot that floods in autumn,
Terrified of getting a fever.
He knows that if he dies,
His story will be told over cold beers
And home-rolled smokes,
By men he only thought were his friends.

But here, in this sweltering moment
He plays, soaring, wailing music that lives,
Grows, swells and beseeches coins from passers-by
departing from commuter trains
holding only thoughts of home, dinner, sleep.
His rock-hard fingertips bend notes sweetly
While his hand strums to a heartbeat
Not his own.

Invisible to most, audible to all,
He has no name, no face, no choice.
But what he has, he cherishes;
Shade, fresh air, and his music.
He smiles softly over grizzled whiskers
His bubble-gum pink tongue teasing his teeth
As his soul teases the Blues from strings
And his heart implores coins
That tinkle in counterpoint.