Tambourine Man

Here at the traffic light of Westheimer
and Gessner a man searches my gaze for a coin.

He rattles a tin can like a tambourine
through a parade of cars; the music
splashes in harmony with a silver cross
he wears over a bedraggled coat.
The sounds of coins rise above
a din of motors and horns ricocheting
against skyscraping buildings.
Mist is falling and skies are gray,
the stunned madness of smog hangs
thick in the air.

How alike we are,
this homeless man with his unquenched
needs and the desert thirst of the city.
The landscape is jutted by outstretched
fingers reaching for coins to fill
its tambourine voices. On every
street corner reflections of cups
and tambourines peer into gold dawns
and copper dusks. The hyacinth blossoms
of earth, the galaxy of stars, and the habitual
music of light fill tin cans ever extended
for more coins.

My fingers tighten around the gold
voices that shine bright in my pocket.
The light changes. I continue on my voyage
to fading sounds of tambourines.