The man stands by the apple barrel,
His hands red to the bone
Air rushing from his lips in cold, crisp bursts
He takes a green apple, throws it in the air
Catches it
He scats what jazz tunes he knows
His brassy voice ringing out
As the wing tips scuffle past
Shoulders hunched, he takes off his beret
Watches a dark suit drop a nickel, then scurry away
They all have places to go, people to see;
Not the man by the apple barrel
He has all day at his leisure
Before he must show his face at home
And tell them how he begged like a dog. Published in The Copperfield Review on July 30, 2012
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