A hum sounds through the checkerboard streets of Manhattan. He jingles when he walks.
A tune unaccompanied! There are no charmed bracelets tinkering or baubles bouncing with his waddles.
Plain. Dressed in depravity. Flamboyance adorned in a fight for reality.
The man’s rattles play from cracked lips. He tramps to an erratic metronome, set by a mind that’s fighting beasts.
A crescendo of limbs orchestrates distress the further south he stomps.
Judging eyes follow his crusading symphony. Coherent rhythm absent in passage.
Rush hour pace has no place in his carriage.
The man continues on.
1st Avenue his music sheet. The descending streets excel his symphonies bravado.
9th, hands rise!
8th, body twirls!
7th, flies of mind swatted in climax.
At what number will the judgment stop?
What Borough will bid haven. Will a bridge be crossed, a ferry be caught. Will a subway corral his melody?
Will a park bench bear his daemons as he beckons pigeons forward with borrowed crumbs?
Where can a man be accepted for something that seems so organically his and unfathomably immovable?
Poem by Mind to Unbind, 2016