In the emptying plaza in the near-dark
a man who is no longer young stands,
holds an old guitar whose tone, like his
own, has mellowed with age. He is strumming
and singing the street lamps to life.
He is remembering the woman he loved.
He is shouting secrets at the stars.
He is wrestling an angel for a blessing.
He is singing himself into wholeness.
He is beholden to the generosity
of passers-by. Beside him on
the cobblestone, his heart lies open.