On a breezy rooftop patio,
a wiry, white-ponytailed man
with a guitar
plays everything:
Johnny Cash, John Lennon,
Neil Diamond. Skillful
callused fingers strum
as he sings, clear and true,
humble smile and so much soul
you know
this is what he loves to do.

My four-year-old munches
french fries, bounces
along to Sweet Caroline,
matches every word
in his high, soft lilt. He reaches
for my palm at Hands, touching hands,
like he always does.
The sun is butter
melting slow. It spreads
its toasty glow across the sky
so good, so good, so good.