The Street Performer
from my office, the saxophonist sounds like all the city annoyances
I turn on the noise cancellation to avoid the disturbance
minutes later, a friend asks if I want to go to a jazz show
my husk of a body wakes up with the thought of a screeching saxophone
in that moment the melody from down below breaks through the commotion
there is no show tonight so I make my way to the street performer
my mind is eager but my body moves slowly nonetheless
as I walk through the final set of doors I see the saxophone lying in the case
the performer is counting the scattered bills below
his face does a poor job hiding the disappointment
just a minute ago, his lips were firm around his reed
now they loosely mutter the bills he still can’t afford
part of me wants to go over to him
to say something to make him feel better
or make me feel better
but I have nothing to say
it feels like we’re a world apart
it would take a lifetime to get to him
so I just sit and watch him make his way to the bus stop
I wonder what his life is like after that bus takes him away
I hope the bus brings him back to me someday
but for now I sit here alone, with only annoyances around
the plaza is much busier by the time I look up again
I wonder now if these people would have given more to the man
once in a while a coworker of mine finds their way into the crowd hurrying in all directions
none of them notice me, even those I’d consider a friend
my body must have shrunk from the regret of inaction
I guess it’s only fair, as I don’t think they would’ve looked at the performer either
Summer 2026, Berkeley.