Lou Wilde
Dissonance resonates from the miasmic
decay—
the humdrum of a bustling storefront
display;
out front sits a panhandling man playing
Canon in D.
A car honks as it reaches a crescendo,
lingering
in the air with each misty breath, rising
listlessly
over the heads of busybody passersby;
“4 kids,” says the placard, each glissando
crying;
“High rent,” says sinuous writing
scratched on the sign;
Tears fill my eyes as people pass
Pachelbel.