Old man on the pier -
claims he’s the human jukebox.
“Ray Charles, Duke Ellington, Lou Armstrong,
a dollar for my service, just a dollar, please.”
Something about his manner,
how he carries dried-up head atop dried-up shoulders;
slightly honest, humble, always in need.
He is persevering in this fetid city.
I watch the stained orange water lapping on the wooden steps,
while a steamer full of decadence chugs by loud and drunk.
Orange sky, humid night.
Why not listen to a song?
A five-minute lapse into this troubadour’s world?
He opens his mouth; it’s spotted with holes,
And his voice, though weak, holds the melody,
flowing along the dirty air.
Smiling at him the whole while, I fall into his trance.
He has not given up, in his rags and split-toed shoes,
his cracked fingers, raspy voice.
The song ends suddenly, we shake hands, he leaves.
A real human jukebox.