He walked down the cobble paved streets,
As rain trickled down to his intricate beard.
He licked the fissures in his lips,
And pressed the concave scar on his index.
He straightened his spine as it let out a soft cracking noise.
He could taste the scent of beer on his beard,
And feel the furtive whispers around him.
He took off his black ushanka
And his grease-smoothed hair flapped in the wind.
He entered the bar marked Madigan’s.
As he walked through the door, the noise arose
And he could no longer hear his loud exhales.
His nostrils quivered and he knocked on the bar table.
The bartender slammed a rag and a sash on the table,
Pointing firmly at the stage.
He tightened his jaw muscle and tilted his head.
The bartender rolled his eyes and slid him a pint of beer.
He grabbed the pint and the rag leaving the sash behind.
He grabbed the long, light umber instrument,
And skeptically caressed it with the rag.
He untucked the bow and rubbed it against the rosin.
Then he enclosed the rosin in the cloth and dropped it in the case.
He took a sip of the beer as the white foam rested on his moustache.
He violently massaged the strings tightly knitted on the umber instrument.
as the people stared up at him.
It was as if they could smell the weight of his sorrows,
And taste the bittersweetness of his symphony in their drinks.
Each time he finished a piece he traced the scar on his index, and started a new one.
His eyes twitched as he focused on the different chords,
And his arm danced back in forth orchestrating the symphony,
His left leg was relaxed as the big instrument rested on it,
While his other leg contracted frequently along with his thoughts.
He imparted a sense of awe,
That stunned the people scattered around the bar each time.
His symphony fiercely graced their ears.
Much chatter would arise in the bar, attending his arrival,
They couldn’t define his talent yet
they knew it was something pure, raw, natural;