The Vagabond

A white man with black fingers Played a 5 string guitar in his strip lit subway. When the pavements were quiet He sang for himself. Accompanied by a whistling wind and curled leaves, Which sang for him in exclusive echoes, Something for a nothing in everyone’s nowhere. Queens and lions were crowned Shining on the lining of his tweed flat cap, Jettison of the richer man To buy himself a yield to conscience, Given to the poorer man Who only has time in abundance Who wears the elements on his face, Sun Rain Snow Wind And rain. As he walks to find his cardboard crib; The rain silvers his street Glittering his dead man’s mackintosh Making an unseen shadow shine, Beneath the urban gold of lampposts.