Poets Anonymous Ink: Hungry

I’ve been playing my violin on these streets

for years now.

Strangers stuff bills into my cap and tell me

I’m talented.

It isn’t a fiddle.

I don’t saw at the strings.

I’m talented.

But then, on my corner, is a busker.

He doesn’t do anything particularly well, but he has striking blue-green eyes with gold haloes. Women find him beautiful, so even when he sings off-pitch, they hear what they want to hear.

When he strums his guitar, it’s the same chords every day. His singing is screechy. His talent is


He’s a kid. Women find him beautiful, & when I ask him why he’s on the streets, he gets shy and closes his mouth.

I’ve been hungry for years now – my coat tattered and violin weathered.

I tried taking care of a dog I called Wolfy, but I turned my pockets inside out, looking for food. (I came up empty each time, & Wolfy’s ribs showed through patchy fur.)

I could manage not feeding myself. I could live with my own xylophone ribs, but Wolfy was hungry.

Now, no one notices me – maybe I don’t have angel eyes.

Maybe talent doesn’t mean anything, but I go to sleep on a park bench, hungry, ego-bruised, and starved for the attention I used to bask in.

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