A canvas seat and a sun faded violin

I don’t know his name
I never did – it didn’t matter
He has always been the Dago with the violin
The tiny, wiry, wild-haired man
A canvas seat and a sun faded violin
Sitting in front of the grand staircase
Sitting between the noble lions
Michigan Avenue under God’s bluest sky
The bow glinting of the August sun
Strains of music – vaguely familiar – almost beautiful
Music easily floating above the heads
Moving by in gray suits and blue uniforms
Floating past the vacant faces
Wandering – lost – hungry – betrayed
Floating around the gap-tooth smiles
Breaking across the faces of the little ones

He hasn’t been around in a while
At least I haven’t seen him
At least I haven’t heard him
Everyday from my perch behind the wheel
I look and listen for him
The tiny, wiry, wild-haired man
A canvas seat and a sun faded violin

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