Buskers Poem by Sheena Blackhall

On the other side oflife, in our city streets
Wrapped in the identity ofpoverty
Buskers scrape their fiddles, pound guitars

Near an ATM, squatting on rugs and cardboard
A suburban musician squeezes a heart-breaking tune
From a gypsy accordion. Sparrows applaud with tweets

Buskers pluck their pitches like orchard apples
Wherever the footfall's high, the competition's low
Tourist spots, restaurants, cafes, bars, and subways
Theatres, bus stops, malls, where punters meet

Outside a shopping mall an ancient hippy,
Sallow faced,in sagging jeans, cadaverous
Rasps out Sixties songs from a fag-rough throat

Some walk past the hat, see the busker as beggar
The bottom line on the social barometer.
Ignore the plastic cup, the flung down bonnet
Does the blackbird trill his song for remuneration?