Under the rainbow umbrella to parry the sun
He picks notes and strums accords
For coins and stares
Thoughts of food, shelter and meds
Get lost in his music
That is all his woman who sees everything thinks of
The pound of mound
The tinkling of metal striking can on ground
Dry of dust and spit
And blood on the run
The banjo man's face is Castilian
High cheekbones and thick eyebrows
Eyes gray born that way
He is the archetypal slave to love
Fool in a swoon
Swan wan in a pond
Reflections ghost whispering in want
Sighing in pain and sigbin rain
Insulares insulated shielded from the elements
But not from the exploitation of contemplation
Cold deliberation and cruel absence
The squonk cries into sorrow
It sheds tears to melt itself into nothing
The minstrel is swan and squonk
A renegade monk
This is not a love poem
It is not even verse
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