The answer of the violin

She wakes up after dreams of Broadway lights
to find a ridiculous glimmer on the nightstand.
Another nine-to-five routine awaits
in a basement full of desks
and lamps,
and she comforts herself
with the offerings of the light in the fridge.

Bag ready, umbrella broken.
She steps outside and walks toward the daily trade
of heartbeats for coins
that will keep her distracted
from the counting down of her heart.

One foot after the other,
the mist on her face brings self-awareness.
One foot after the other
from kindergarten to college,
all the way through hell
and soul-sucking ladders,
she passes by a living statue
to whom the rain has carved a smile.

“Why don’t you get a job?” She murmurs,
as the violin of another free spirit
sounds like the answer.

Here is the light rain. Drink it.
Tiny drops, fresh and pure.
Yet, each of them more satisfying than
all the bottled water
you drink with the thirst of a toilet sink.
Gallons of ambition
washed away your dreams,
leaving confusion where once lived hope.
When did you confine the joy of creating
to the rigid face of a few remote stages?

She finds herself at a halt.
Listening
and getting wet,
with a smile set on stone
and salt mixed up with raindrops
running down her face.
About to trade coins with the violin
that gave her those few extra heartbeats.

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