photo: E. Herd

The accordionist seems displaced
in Grand Central Station
on the platform
of the number 7 train 

you’d expect to see him
in the back corner of a bar
World War II
bombs dropping, but
he soldiers on,
whisky-sticky floor
glasses tinkling
sad brown eyes
open case

I throw in a dollar as he plays
“La Vie en Rose”
it’s Friday—TGIF!
he looks the same
as every other day 

he smiles weakly (as if it hurts), and nods
the dollar flutters into his case
a paper bird
finding its place

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