A Poem: Jesus y Alberto
Jesus y Alberto
Written by Greg Swimelar
Jesus plays the small box accordion
And Alberto plays his trumpet.
Together,
On the lane leading to the Picasso Museum.
There is no money in Alberto’s trumpet case
Lying on the ground in front of them.
He looks out of the corner
Of his eye
While they play
To see if he can read
Facial expressions communicating enjoyment
Or satisfaction
With their music.
That’s number one.
He’s also looking for hands.
Hands reaching into pockets
Or purses
For those metal pieces
That will buy his grand-daughter’s Easter dress.
Jesus doesn’t have to look.
Alberto looks for him.
He just plays and thinks,
And daydreams:
How did the years pass so quickly?
I wonder if Noelia will get well.
What do I look like sitting here?
What would my mother say if she were alive?
Later, Alberto and I will stop by the tapas bar
If we do OK.
I think we’ll do OK.
“Alberto…what do you think?”
“We’ll do OK.”
Written by Greg Swimelar
Jesus plays the small box accordion
And Alberto plays his trumpet.
Together,
On the lane leading to the Picasso Museum.
There is no money in Alberto’s trumpet case
Lying on the ground in front of them.
He looks out of the corner
Of his eye
While they play
To see if he can read
Facial expressions communicating enjoyment
Or satisfaction
With their music.
That’s number one.
He’s also looking for hands.
Hands reaching into pockets
Or purses
For those metal pieces
That will buy his grand-daughter’s Easter dress.
Jesus doesn’t have to look.
Alberto looks for him.
He just plays and thinks,
And daydreams:
How did the years pass so quickly?
I wonder if Noelia will get well.
What do I look like sitting here?
What would my mother say if she were alive?
Later, Alberto and I will stop by the tapas bar
If we do OK.
I think we’ll do OK.
“Alberto…what do you think?”
“We’ll do OK.”
posted by Greg | 2:19 AM
1 Comments:
Greg,
I appreciated your allowing the reader to see inside the characters and giving them souls.
I remember walking through San Francisco, seeing all the street performers and wondering what they were thinking and what kind of life they had when the early morning came. For most tourists, it was much easier to just keep walking and remain focused because the alternative would be to acknowledge a lot of heartbreaking existences.
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