A man on the F train
is singing for change. His voice
resonating from some empty cavity of his body
is beautiful, stronger than his legs
bowing past passengers, hand cupped for silver praise.
We have all his money
who avoid his eyes and don’t listen
because singing on the subway is begging
while singing in a club for a ten-dollar cover is success.
Here it’s a dollar-fifty for the ride
and whatever you can spare ‘cause baby it’s cold outside
and I pay him a dollar, thin paper apology
because his voice is beautiful, resonating
in some empty cavity of my body.
:: Amy Meckler, What All the Sleeping Is For (2002)
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