Krista Ramsay Der Leiermann
Across the street, the bearded man slouches on his backpack beneath an ice covered awning. Surplus coat, surplus cycles of freeze and thaw, moth-eaten cap. His chapped hands search for the chords to some Lennon song, guitar slung across his body, strap frayed, missing a string. The crosswalk signal flashes red, green, red, against his frets. People rush from the city bus, past the man, refuse his bloodshot eyes, focus on the salted sidewalk ahead. I cross, toss a bill into his empty case. Forget the recipe for Coq au Vin. Forget which wine to serve for dinner at six.