A man plays Rachmaninov & Philip Glass on a grand pianee in Washington Square Park. I don’t know how it got there but it doesn’t seem to matter to anyone but me. I am embarrassed.
An aging rocker sits nearest to him.
(I just googled the word aging. Google wants to know if I need to know if Aging Is A Disease. I do not.)
The rocker sits nearest to him, clad in black and leather, his face full of heartache.
The pianist introduces the Rach. as something people don’t usually like, to which rocker angrily retorts, “the Rach. is beautiful” – a pained expression consuming him.
He looks as though he’s lived a thousand love stories.
The Rach. is over, the pianist leaves, but rocker doesn’t.
I think he’s turned to stone.
He’s not from this world.
An infant reaches into the money bucket and as a result is recruited as cute cash collector.
The rocker remains.
Crickets scream in the heat. The rocker bows his head.
[He’s waiting for the next tune like a 3am train]
He can’t move.
People keep moving,
the fountain keeps flowing.