The Saxophonist

He sits at the corner of 52nd and 6th. An old, black man, salt-and-pepper beard, shorts, and stark white socks. At times he almost disappears: made small by the buildings around him and overpowered by the neon of Radio City Music Hall. But you always hear his music. Cars cannot floor it, and the fountain cannot drown it out. Low, slow notes, each held for an eternity, then allowed to shatter their way down. I stare at him for a long while. I do not think. Somehow, his music knows how I feel.

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