Ode to A Busker

habitual ritual game trails worn into forest ruts
deep grooves in a record indicate rare cuts
scars mar a smooth face until it rusts

canyons worn into leather roar rivers through cowhides
water runs rivulets singing through creased smiles
old crows feet frame coal baby blues old as lies

squeak and creak. and the creek’s bones ache late at night
even a stream’s joints get tight. even steam needs the light
dying to find the lost symphony where water and ice fight

a face is the map of a life. composed by delicate hands
score read by the fingers of a violinist dancing in the sand
crafting music to make stones cry until the hills stand

gap toothed mountainous grin the legacy of sins onstage
childlike joy within weeping agates in a net of wrinkled age
rocky fingers caress sweet strings into a story with no page

cry the laughter of the babbling brook
sing a story not found in any book
no one spares a dollar or a look