There’s a man
who walks the subway train
each night asking for money
by way of wayward singing of a song.
“Fee-lings” he begins,
nodding to that old standard
but the riffs turn to his hunger:
“I’m hun-gry” in a monotone,
and then the proposed solution–
“I like chi-cken”
–exhaling
a single harmonica tone.
“I like chi-cken legs,
and chi-cken thighs.
I like fried chi-cken,
chi-cken and rice,
Chinese chi-cken”–
with another wheezing tone.
The song
hasn’t changed in years.
By now it’s a routine, and music
–music!–
is nowhere to be found.
