Songs

My friend has a face like unemployment.

Even when he has a job

he looks perpetually uncertain,

desperate and distant.

I see him now and again

in the afternoon.  He sits

on a bus bench at the corner

of Cleveland Street and Olive

with the sun on his unemployment.

A family of birds nests above him

in the drug store sign.  He says,

if he pays attention he can hear them sing.

Their song lives somewhere within

quick clips of music from passing cars,

the hum of engines, an occasional

tire squeal, and the click click click

of the traffic light.

He told me once

that he sits there

until the song 

is all he can hear,

and in that moment

he smiles.