I saw him again today, the homeless poet who recently broke his harmonica.
He is a well-spoken, dark-skinned man with a clean but unkempt beard and a knit hat pulled over his black hair.
In one hand he was carrying the Burnside Cadillac, a paper filled with the rambling thoughts of the Portland homeless. In the other he was carrying a bag (contents unknown) and a single red rose.
He was speaking to no one in particular and though I did not hear the words he spoke, I could hear the rich meaning in his voice.
