Strummer

Last night late, I saw him on the far end of the strand.
The bars are smaller and the patrons less affluent there.
The musicians strain to play to washed out crowds,
if that;s what you call a rowdy handful.

Where my across the street neighbor serenades on weekends,
with his 3 piece combo singing lyrics ,
"My father's name was John, a running, strumming man..."
Words across the memory lane nostalgia.

A pathos performance to its equal in people,
too steep in their drinks to hear the man fading,
except me and the homeless bastard
parked on a boardwalk bench listening.

At the end of the jam, says Son of John
to the six barely attendant,
"How you all doing?" Feeble response,
he signs off; "See you, tomorrow."

Tomorrow and tomorrow,
till the season is emptied.
Labor Day gone,
October nearing.

I'll see him again in the morning
as he steps from his across-the-street-house
in topless pajamas, to sniff the air,
his eyes a quarter to 11 squinting .

A barrel for a belly,
middle age old and bald,
he'll stretch and yawn,
and reach for his crotch...

To scratch as he usually does
in that half -way there style
of how he strums his guitar
at The Fisherman's Angle, on weekends.