I see him on my walk to work and my heart soars; for someone with only six fingers, he plays the guitar better than anyone I’ve ever known. For someone with only six fingers, he always has a smile on his face.
He’s never there when I walk home and I wonder where he calls home.
Often he is battered and bruised.
Sometimes he goes away for long stretches, and I think that this will be the last time I see that sweet face, but then the day comes when I hear his melodic strumming and turn the corner to see the man I admire, the man who inspires me so.
The Archive tells me he’s what was known as a ‘busker’, yet this cannot be true because he doesn’t do it for money and any offering is refused. He’s always clean shaven and dressed smartly, sitting on his stool with guitar in hand.
For someone with five fingers, he plays so sweetly.
For someone with four fingers, he touches my heart.
For someone with three fingers, he lights a fire inside me.
For someone with two fingers, he gives me hope.
The Founding Fatherhood could take away his guitar, but possession is not illegal. The ‘busker’ could apply for a permit, but that is not the point either.
I’ve not seen him for a month, the longest time yet.
I should burn this propaganda, but I won’t. I’ll keep writing and defiantly sharing until I have no fingers left.