Buskers in Concert
(Freier Strasse, Basel, Switzerland)
On any sunny Saturday
I stroll down Main Street,
music lures me, baits my ears.
A brown-faced family sings.
The strong, joyous chorus,
calls strangers to their song.
"Guantanamera,Guajira Guantanamera."
A fat man sits besides his crutches
on the cobbled stone path and strums a guitar.
His voice, clear and crisps, croons its beauty:
“And here's to you, Mrs. Robinson,
Jesus loves you more than you will know.”
Beyond the ice-cream vendor,
an old woman perched on a stool
presses, pumps and stretches a hoarse accordion.
Ribcage worn, it cries with age and moans,
“ O sole,O sole moi.”
A man, whose sticks jump and skip
around keys on the xylophone,
competes with steel pan players,
who pling-plang-pling the story of
“Brown skin girl stay home and mind baby.”
A bass player, skinny arms and elbows
dancing up and down, strings a groaning tune.
The cacophony continues,
each instrument playing its part
taking us on a musical journey.
The whining violin, the doleful flute
the brassy shrill of a saxophone
are silenced by the rumbling of a passing tram.
Pattering raindrops do not persuade musicians to pause.
They perform despite drizzle and a few scattered coins
in a hat, a tin, a violin case.
I’m drawn back again and again
to hear the city’s voices and sounds.
A clanging church bell announces noon.
I steal away from the audible feast.
© Althea Romeo-Mark 21.07.2011
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