on the steps
the man sits
with his guitar-

nylon strings
and a wooden body
and if he’s playing,
he’s doing so too quietly
to be heard-

across the street,
in my apartment,
there are people-
myself, my friends,
a traveling musician named dustin
who sings with a deeper voice
than his nineteen years would suggest-

and for months,
the man on the steps
would leave notes on my car
every time i parked
in a space
in front of the building he owns-

in the end,
the police had to be involved
and i no longer leave my car
on his side of the street-
he is free to unload the toolbox he carries
as he maintains the units
he rents to people like me,
free to lead his wife, their children,
up the stairs
without having to struggle
to find a place to park-

he is free
to play the guitar
so quietly
across the street
from a room full of people
who are listening
to music.