Thanksgiving; Union Square


We are the audience of wastrels.
With nowhere to go on a Friday night we stand
separate and alone
bound still to the strains of your harmonica. Its sadness
magnified – and echoed,
high notes racing along blank subway tiles tying us each in turn
void bodies all; none leaving
for the nothing
we have waiting.

Add comment

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.