A blue-eyed busker strums and plucks at rusty strings
whose meagre echo fades amid competing shouts
that drift upon the chilly air. Footsteps clatter
through the white-tile underpass, staccato rhythms
drowning sweetness in her voice, while the lone guitar
mumbles chords that die dispirited before they
find an ear. Those passing-by are deaf to effort,
made so by their own affairs, but sometimes—sometimes
one will pause, draw closer to the girl in shabby
clothes, close enough to see her piercings and tattoos.
Fingers find a coin, mined from trouser pocket folds,
hauled from warmth to winter, then dropped without a word,
its lonely impact in the empty hat, as good
as an ovation from the claque. Her audience
departs, and she, without pausing in her quiet
recitation, acknowledges the gift, mid-song,
and casts a glance at a retreating back. Her eyes,
for just a moment, seem less sad, but still they’re blue.