Bare-chested beneath the awning’s shade,
he sits with his guitar, half in dream—
the strings sigh softly, a golden seam
stitched through the city’s passing parade.
Rain-slick pavement mirrors light,
trams glide by in a silver blur;
his voice, low ember, seems to stir
the air between the day and night.
People pass—umbrellas bloom,
phones glow pale in drifting hands;
yet still he plays, as though he stands
in some cathedral made of gloom.
Unnoticed saint of Swanston Street,
his song spills warm where cold winds meet.
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