Busker

It’s late now, fiddler man. Go home!
Balance your fiddle and folding chair
on your sturdy bike, while over there
a pair of racers breeze past
on sleek fast bikes, and students
lay in the park where you played,
on the lush, soft green, the summer scene
a welcome relief from their brief burst
of hard work. A seasoned drunk
marches along, the harsh song
of his over-loud voice advertising
his choice between reality and
sweet escape this night.
Yeah, right enough it’s late, and
the notes fade, and fiddler man
balances his odd load on his bike,
and he pedals away, away.

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