My Busker

image shared from iamachild.wordpress 

My Busker

“I have done my share of busking--

it’s fun until it isn’t.”--Andrew Bird.

I walked out of Winco

              yesterday,         & in the corner of my eye

I saw her

before I heard her, a middle-aged woman

                                       sitting on the sidewalk,

                                       her back to the store,

               wearing a tattered black hoodie

               over a brown plaid shirt, her levis

torn at the knees, 

without make-up, with a prominent nose,

               gray streaks in her stringy

               bobbed dyed-blond tresses,

with piercing green-violet eyes twinkling

behind cat’s eye glasses          that were held together

                                                 with white medical tape, sitting

               on a soiled green couch cushion

               on a colorful Indian blanket, playing

a battered black acoustic guitar        ( poorly ),

               it’s strap of dirty clothes line around her neck,

using a sun-yellow-orange pick

that was cracked at the edges

like her fingernails,        singing BLOWING IN THE WIND

( off-key), both               the instrument & her voice,

accompanied by an old black Pug,

                                       his fur & muzzle mostly

                                       gray-white, who

panted, snorted & howled along with the “music”.

I saw all of this in a glance

while walking to my car

in the rain--that & her open guitar case

                  with four single dollar bills

                               dotting the bright red velveteen innards.

Jesus, lady, where the hell are you from,

& what the hell are you thinking?

I strongly dislike, am disturbed

by panhandlers & beggars, always

                   pulled emotionally

                   in several directions.       But then I stopped,

                    as the rain let up a little. I stood

with my wet naked hands gripping the handle

of the shopping cart tightly, 

my knuckles turning white.       I could still hear her,

                     now singing LADIES OF THE CANYON.

I turned & pushed the cart

back to the store

& paused in front of her.          She smiled up at me

                                         while singing, with a mouthful

                   of bad teeth, as I saw a purple-green bruise

on her left cheek. She looked directly into

                   my eyes, & whatever her story or her 

situation, for that moment I loved her,

                   & she knew it.

I dropped a five dollar bill

into her guitar case just as

three other shoppers stopped

to listen to her, reaching for their spare change.

                    

                     I touched the bill of my ball cap

                     in farewell, & rushed to my SUV,

my cheeks wet with both

shame & pride, 

                  my tears both           salty & sweet

dripping over my smiling lips.

When I got home

I told my wife about this woman,

& she insisted that we drive back there

to support her efforts,

                 but when we arrived, she

                 was already gone. 

Glenn Buttkus

Posted over at dVerse Poets MTB

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