Monday, January 23, 2012

The Troubadour

He sings in a trembling

Japanese warble which

at first, made me wince,

convinced he didn’t have the

chops to set up shop

belting out soft rock oldies

under First Avenue

along the L,

been hearing him for years so

it shows what I know

as I stroll into the station-cum-studio

where Beatles hits are bellowed

for cheddar into a pleading guitar case,

a hard-shell cage for his hard earned wage,

He sits in the benches closest

to the stairs, his strains heard

plain from the turnstile to back

wall of the police booth while

we, the denizens of late night

New York City wait for the

train to lie prostrate and

drunkenly prone till’ that

squealing silver cabbie

brings us swaying home

but until then we are

his captive audience

unevenly arrayed throughout

rat-scratched underground ambience

in this, the deepest of the dive bars,

perennial subterranean star

I admire you in your acoustic pursuit

surrounded by the rude and uncouth,

though what you say is grating

it still can somehow soothe.

No comments:

Post a Comment