by Jennifer Van Orman
He’s missing a leg and he sits
at the top of the escalator,
plush navy horn case open
near his wheelchair,
and as I ride up from underground,
I see the sun and hear the music
at the same time.
I think of people I have moved away from,
people I used to call my friends
and realize they are my friends no longer.
None of them ask where I am these days
and I wonder why they don’t wonder.
Waiting at the elevator, I wait.
Waiting at the crosswalk, I wait.
Listen to this man play the same bars,
can you tell me how to get, how to get…
*Jennifer Van Orman is a painter and writer who lives in Portland, Maine.
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