Broken Guitar
© Surazeus
2018 06 14
After working five hours at washing dishes
in the Chinese restaurant on Walnut Street,
Martin pulls wagon with guitar and amp
to play outside the First National Bank.
Black rain clouds loom over Seattle streets
that glitter from gold street lights at high noon,
and mist sparkles among trees and on hair
of people in long coats who walk to lunch.
Twanging guitar strings that reverberate
from the small amp on the little red wagon,
Martin improvises ballads and folk songs
while people drop dollar bills in his hat.
Three men in blue business suits walking past
stop and listen to the words when he sings
about the greedy clown with nuclear eyes
who slouches in the White House like a pig.
Kicking the wagon and breaking his amp,
the businessmen shout insults at his face,
grab his arms and punch him in the stomach,
then smash his guitar against the bank wall.
People stop and record the cruel assault
with smart phones in short videos they post
on social media, while someone calls
the police who arrive with flashing lights.
Six policemen grab Martin by the arms,
but when he protests and struggles for freedom,
shouting he is the victim of their assault,
they tase him and slam him on hard cement.
Screaming as they handcuff his twisted arms,
Martin hollers, "I was just playing music,
but they attacked me and broke my guitar,
so why are you arresting me instead?"
Ignoring his protests, the police shove
Martin into the car with flashing lights,
then take him to the large city jailhouse
where he slouches in corner of his cell.
After three days shivering in cement cell,
Martin stands when two policemen arrive,
expecting to be freed from this injustice,
but they say he will be charged for loitering.
Struggling to escape the grip of their hands,
Martin screams, shouting to respect his rights,
but they slam his head into cement wall
which breaks his neck, so he slouches down dead.
Martin lies dead on the silver morgue table
as his mother stares weeping at his face,
whispering, "You had talent for playing music,
so you will always be a star in my eyes."
Driving home after his short funeral,
where she stood alone in the silent mist,
Mabel puts broken guitar on the shelf
beside his Gandalf figure and song tapes.
Wind swirls leaves across the sidewalk each noon
in front of the huge First National Bank,
and mist sparkles among trees and on hair
of people in long coats who walk to lunch.
© Surazeus
2018 06 14
After working five hours at washing dishes
in the Chinese restaurant on Walnut Street,
Martin pulls wagon with guitar and amp
to play outside the First National Bank.
Black rain clouds loom over Seattle streets
that glitter from gold street lights at high noon,
and mist sparkles among trees and on hair
of people in long coats who walk to lunch.
Twanging guitar strings that reverberate
from the small amp on the little red wagon,
Martin improvises ballads and folk songs
while people drop dollar bills in his hat.
Three men in blue business suits walking past
stop and listen to the words when he sings
about the greedy clown with nuclear eyes
who slouches in the White House like a pig.
Kicking the wagon and breaking his amp,
the businessmen shout insults at his face,
grab his arms and punch him in the stomach,
then smash his guitar against the bank wall.
People stop and record the cruel assault
with smart phones in short videos they post
on social media, while someone calls
the police who arrive with flashing lights.
Six policemen grab Martin by the arms,
but when he protests and struggles for freedom,
shouting he is the victim of their assault,
they tase him and slam him on hard cement.
Screaming as they handcuff his twisted arms,
Martin hollers, "I was just playing music,
but they attacked me and broke my guitar,
so why are you arresting me instead?"
Ignoring his protests, the police shove
Martin into the car with flashing lights,
then take him to the large city jailhouse
where he slouches in corner of his cell.
After three days shivering in cement cell,
Martin stands when two policemen arrive,
expecting to be freed from this injustice,
but they say he will be charged for loitering.
Struggling to escape the grip of their hands,
Martin screams, shouting to respect his rights,
but they slam his head into cement wall
which breaks his neck, so he slouches down dead.
Martin lies dead on the silver morgue table
as his mother stares weeping at his face,
whispering, "You had talent for playing music,
so you will always be a star in my eyes."
Driving home after his short funeral,
where she stood alone in the silent mist,
Mabel puts broken guitar on the shelf
beside his Gandalf figure and song tapes.
Wind swirls leaves across the sidewalk each noon
in front of the huge First National Bank,
and mist sparkles among trees and on hair
of people in long coats who walk to lunch.
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