The busker


 

Above the clatter of the cast steel wheels
a song arrives
before its frail box does
A piece of human flotsam in a frayed shirt
offers raucous-sounding words
in tune to the train’s gravelly rattles over the tracks
An item girl’s apparition gyrates
in the narrow mental aisles between colliding knees
Some hum along, popping roasted peanuts
to tide over the breathing pauses
while the artist/busker/beggar
carries his desperation/art/hunger, row to row
pocketing the furtive glances full of disgust/repulsion/loathing
as they skim over his unsightly gifts
With no pretence to art /aesthetics,
he is a latent impoverished bomb,
a damp canvas of  fleshy, leprosy bubbles
but here his song ends and his palm stretches
Loose change from pockets clears the dismal air
The last teats of sympathy and revulsion milked,
he shuffles off the train
humming to himself till the next long whistle
©Reena Prasad JUN 2013

Published in “The art of being human”  VOL 2 anthology .
LINK HERE .

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