An Orbital
On the bricks,
A painted yellow star peeling,
Inside a man and guitar playing,
Outside the weather is freezing.
Past the musical constellation,
The people are walking,
Heads in the wind,
Searching the leeward doors.
The music bouncing off,
Their contracted pores,
To cold to toss coins.
Still the star keeps on playing,
To the wind that is blowing,
The notes pass the bodies,
Escape out into space.
This alone seems to please him,
Freed from rhythms measure,
Knowing that harmonies roam,
And for his nomadic pleasure,
Sitting on the sidewalk,
Alone.
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