the businessman and the busker

-
the businessman and the busker
The note is cool and wide
and he is floating in it, lost
within its current that guides
him down its gentle bends
and curves, a bobbing blue-suit boat
in string-plucked stream, to wind
his way down minor falls
and major strains until he comes
to rest in stagnant pools
of his soul, untouched for years—

the way his mother’s floured hands 
had held his face through tears, 
caressed his fractured leg 
and whispered something to the night
he couldn’t hear but felt 
as soft as kisses on 
his skin—the night his father’s father 
stood naked in the storm
until they led him back 
inside, where there he swore he heard
Amelia’s voice in cracks
of summer thunder; they’d placed
him in a home—his uncle Ned, 
his mind a twisted root 
of dementia, standing beneath 
the alder tree that leaned its leafy 
head out on the roof,
for hours speaking words 
that don't exist in conscious speech. 

But tonight, in the gritty thrum 
of steel-cold sounds of the city,
the busker’s note carries him on, 
and he now swears the tree
                                 heard every word.

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