Blind

Do you think it's strangethat I always dedicatemy poems to a blind man?He lives in a cardboard castleunder the J railway.When I hearthe high-pitched squealof train breaks,I think of about his coat,dusty and torn,even when he's somewhere else,like Wharf and Market Street,begging for change. Scratch that.He doesn't beg, he playshis harmonicafor paying admirers, whilehis eyes, no iris orsclera, just brown clouds,shift from side to sidelike a metronomemeasuring the song,low and fragile,that comes out of his instrument.

Does it seem strange to youthat, instead of turning my gaze inward,I point it at the world,changing people and objectsinto things that I can praise? Do you think it's strange,blind man, that I talk about youin the third personas if you weren't here,as if I were afraidof opening my eyes, and seeingwho you really are?