El Mexicano Viejo

 

 

The old man

moved slowly through the crowd

as he did most every night,

with a guitar on his back

and a smile on his face.

 

He’d been coming here forever

-or at least as long as I’d been-

and I never saw him play for anyone.

 

With west coast sands running down

and all thoughts drifting east,

I handed him my last three dollars

and asked for a song.

‘Something about love’, I said.

 

He stuffed the bills

deep into his pocket

and began to play.

 

His dirty, yellow fingernails

plucked at the strings,

and he sang

as if he would never sing

another song.

 

Passion ripped through every inch

of his ragged frame.

 

I stared at the lines

carved deep into his brown,

weathered face

and the greasy,

silver-black curls

that spilled from his

old, straw, cowboy hat.

 

At that moment,

I couldn’t recall

ever seeing a more beautiful face.

 

I wondered if he was someone’s dad

or husband or grandfather.

 

When the music stopped  

he tipped his hat and smiled

as he turned toward the door.

 

Then,

like a ghost,

he floated back through the bar

and out onto Mission Street.

 

And as he disappeared

into the cool, San Francisco night,

I could feel the world healing.