Crowding the street his melodic beat sways
a stream of bodies lost in gritty dreams
holding on to each note of hope he streams
a biorhythm composed of all days.
No one knows mournful strings hide within plays
ears picking grooves of funked up lazy seams
only the lonely stoop gets caught and deems
his silent key questioning whites to greys –
Echoing off Saturday’s crowd gone rogue
he keeps eyes closed ignoring telling skin
that seems to stretch, a mystery pishogue
unconsciously losing instincts of kin
lost in song they broke open from white vogue
swimming in depths of societal sin.