Busker

He doesn’t have much. He can’t even see people staring. It’s just him and a tambourine on the same corner, day after day. I pass by reluctantly, since he reminds me of a deep hurt. He sings songs of love and loss. I get angry for no reason. He’s the scapegoat, but who’s better off, anyway, since I see his misery and he’s unaware of mine.