Busking

The day folds up like money
if you’re lucky. Mostly

sun a cold coin
drumming into the blue

of a guitar case. Close
up & head home.

Half-hundred times I wanted
to hock these six strings

or hack, if I could, my axe
into firewood. That blaze

never lasts.
I’ve begged myself hoarse

sung streetcorner
& subway over a train’s blast

through stale air & trash.
You’ve seen me, brushed past—

my strings screech
& light up like a third rail—

Mornings, I am fed by flies,
strangers, sunrise.