What Are We To Do But Drop A Coin?

Unkempt beard,

melancholy ghost.

Still        he fills

this subway tunnel with his song.

Passers-by unsure:

They don’t know what to think,

but    though rushed

a sonic touch that’s brushed

across tympanic membranes sets

systems sitting upright and alert;

it seems to stop them in their tracks;

So then    they turn        abrupt.

Just listen to that lyre!

The strangeness of its sound,

tympanic tingles through skin and bone,

the stirred and steaming stupe

of memorable thinks;  yet even

as his fingers weave

that gossamer of tangled skeins,

that subtle tapestry of transmuted tones,

it is just as though his soul’s been bared for himself alone;

Right here! As if this were the entranceway

to another   nether world   athwart distant growls

of passing trains   of howls

that sound a pack of Cerberean dogs,

he mourns    like that over-worked

servant-sailor of the deep,

for some unimaginable   decerebrating loss.