The clarinetist

j ludwikowski tolstonog

I heard his clarinet on Burbank, near the freeway.
He was there the old man, he was there again today
through the car window, I handed a bill to him, one dollar
holding his music, for a short while,
he brought his hand close to mine,
I held it for a flash It felt cold, and dry against my palm
I loved him, I loved him nice, with all my heart
I still can feel the rough cut of his lifeline.
Thanks, he said…Driving off, I wondered if perhaps,
he despised me for being white