A busker with a broken guitar
sings a cure for urban misery.
Between neon stars made up of Corporate letters
and spoiled lights of a lonely streetlamp
he plucks his broken guitar away;
itís no stage for moonlit serenades.
The floating faces that throb along
the corners marked by illegible signs
go untouched by his indigo breath;
orts of words sprawled on asphalt,
licked over by rubber tires.
Chanter on, my busker friend,
obla-dibla-da till the coming
of a second Christ!
And in the case of his broken guitar:
three pennies and a palmful of dimes
just enough for a bottled DASANI
to make him sing still some more
of himself into morsels,
while night lasts.