The Guitarist

Under the greasy harmathan

I once saw a man

Standing by the gates of fleeting hope

With a voice that hung on a tiny rope
Of blistered fingers

And sweaty palms

Dancing in strums 

That reeked of slums
A hat on the floor

Begged the swinging door

For food to eat

And ears for his beat
And when l stopped to lend my ear

The rhythm picked up gear

While the hat begged my hand

To touch its hand

Sincerely, thank you for reading.

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