He plays bongos on a street corner,
ragged, but focused. “I used to be
a great artist,” he beams, but
his eyes are blank.
I place a dollar bill in his jar
then see the sign, No begging.
“You still are,” I reply,
and slide him a ten from my wallet.
But that is not all I remember.
Before turning to merge
with the crush of people moving forward,
I notice the reflection of a woman
with cropped hair and a navy suit.
A scarf streaked in shades of blue
is tied, positioned, pinned perfectly
about her neck. To this distant
but familiar face I whisper,
“You still are.”
July's Skosh of Poetry