Pianos filled streets.
An old man plays sweet, childlike music with his baseball shirt dirty, weather beaten.
I watched him and wept.
In the middle of the road this piano is there for performance
But this man is there for music.
In fact, I think he'd rather I didn't watch him as his fingers glide the piano, and his warbling voice keeps up - almost - with the lyrics.
Streets filled pianos.
I'll leave him to play. Innocence. Old man.
No comments:
Post a Comment