Blue

He was there when I walked in.
And there where I left him,
Outside the theatre doors.

Rough and Ragged
Rubbing the bow across sophisticated strings.
Blatantly asking for dollar bills
to keep his quarters and dimes company.

A wiry old thing,
Swaying back and forth
with music's catalyst.
Combining the classical, low-bellied cello
with the pertinence of 12 bar blues.

Singing and swiveling and
Sharing what he loved
in exchange for what he needed
More than music.

I pictured him in grade school
(However far he got).
His teacher the introduction to the cello,
enticing him to pluck its vinyl veins.

Did he play Mozart,
Swaying back and forth
during long evening concerts
held in the auditorium?

Did he still play
when life got hard?
When schooling was a distant memory,
When street became his new stage?

And how many of his orchestra mates
of When
inhabit neighboring street corners of necessity?