On a wooden bench, a man is sitting with a guitar. His head is laid up against the curve of the body. The body rests on his knees.
His eyes are closed, and his white beard scratches the guitar's body slightly.
He is playing with confidence.
His song is French, and his voice caresses the lisping words.
He is a veteran of one of our wars. (His sign tells no more than this.)
He is singing beyond us, though we are standing near him, watching the motion of his fingers, the tilt of his head, his long dirty hair, his closed eyes.
And he is not paying attention to us at all, though I feel he would know if we dropped a coin or two into his hat.
Instead, I close my eyes with him. And when I am home, I will cradle my guitar with my body, I will lay my head up against its curve, and I will learn a song in French.
