Every day, he is there
In front of that same small shop
Like it’s his second home.
He sits there and plays his violin
To the rhythm of the city.
He plays for the pleasure of others
That they rarely show, but he knows is there.
But that day, a child shows her affection
For the soft, wondrous tunes
That this old man is creating is creating for her.
She gracelessly taps her little feet
To the beat of the music.
Conversations halt,
Traffic slows,
And the old man plays with more delight in his eyes
And more depth in his smile lines,
Than he has in years.