Taps his foot to the music
Frayed boot heal wiggles against the floor
Fingers, as comfortable on frets
As his legs are in jeans
What does he sing?
What is that sound?
History weeping through
Oozing out of dry crevasses
Days in the sun created
Poems written on wrinkled paper
Songs sung to walls of fallen plaster
Large women clap approval
Hoping to take a piece home
Frequency broadcast to a crowd
Listening ears, watchful eyes
Curtains moving with the fan
Breeze blowing in the street noise
His howling is overruled
shannon p. laws 