He comes along the street, singing,
a rag of a man, with his game foot and bum’s clothes.
He’s asking for nothing—his hands
aren’t even held out. His song
is the gift of singing, to him
and to all who will listen.

To hear him, you’d think the engines
would all stop, and the flower vendor would stand
with her hands full of flowers and not move.
You’d think somebody would have hired him
and provided him a clean quiet stage to sing on.

But there’s no special occasion or place
for his singing—that’s why it needs
to be strong. His song doesn’t impede the morning
or change it, except by freeing adding itself.