The Mouth Harp Man

It was early morning.
The streets were smokey blue-grey
And it had not yet dawned. The day
Was young still.
I heard a whining, loud and shrill.
I swept the window open to look
And saw a battered old man with a crook
And mouth harp. It cringed. Squawking.

It sang out and roused the dust
And the window latches bound in rust.
The misanthrope cared not.
He played amid the spreading sky and rot
Stained timber frames of houses
As the city stretches, shakes and rouses.

He cared not for glares, just the holes in his shoes.
Not for thieves, he has nothing much to lose
Except a tin can and a cardboard box.
He has nothing to hide behind some locks.
I stop and turn, unplug my Ipod
For this lonely man bears the sweet song of God.