Busker (Poetry)

The pavement's cold, the sky is bruised with storm cloud,
I squint against the wind that tunnels through
my overcoat - it finds each ragged fissure
and burrows deep, its ice-capped claws as blue
as notes that shiver, launch their frozen echoes,
fragile on the drizzle-laden air -
the plaintif jazz of poverty and hunger
floating like a paean to despair.

I choose my repertoire to suit the weather -
the days I work are blustery and bleak,
aching from a chill pneumonic fever,
trembling, I let my music speak
to passers-by - the Crombied civil servants
scurrying to cosy officelands,
eyes averted from my crouching figure,
dropping coins from snugly mittened hands.

I offer them a ticket to salvation -
a chance to show some kindness with no fuss -
for they believe their pound will make a difference
and show they care for every one of us
who squat in doorways, singing for our supper,
the homeless, unemployed and dispossessed,
grateful for the crust thrown by a stranger
who's sure his show of pity will be blessed.

The service that I give is strictly social
and the price of absolution's bargain rate -
a quick and easy way to soothe the conscience
with every folded fiver they donate.
As crowds grow thin I put away my fiddle,
count the money, tie it in a sack,
sneak quietly down the cabbage-smelling alley -
the Daimler's parked discreetly round the back.