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
mediocre.
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.
Isabelle Palerma 