Where the red line meets the green line is where the man

makes his living

He sings his songs about peace and love, says God can be

forgiving



His tattered sandals show their wear, his face is pale and

dry,

Another chord, another verse, the train thunders by



I gaze into his empty eyes, so innocent, so real,

They gaze at me and hope that I'll provide his morning meal.



A voice is heard, "Go back to work, you worthless, stinking

bum ..."

"This is my job, and all I ask, is some silver from ya, chum."



He is a prophet in a time where all the prophets they have

gone

But here he is guitar in hand, the song, it plays along



He offers his message, sings the song, never out of tune,

My friends they say, "This guy's a freak, the train better get

here soon."



I shun them, and I listen still, words and emotions are one

Forget the train, I'm staying here, you'll wait until he's

done



And yet just then, the final chord, applause it should be

near

And still, I wait, what's this, what do I hear?



A scatter clap, a rolling murmur, the people do not care

As if they're all surrounding me saying, "Clap ... if you dare"



The prophet lowers his guitar, and states with tender

clarity.

"I thank you all, I love to play but I still need your

charity"



A few oblige as do I, dollar and silver into his case

He says to me as I glance upon his time-trodden face,



"God bless you," states the man, as my train whines to a stop

I thank him for his song, as more coins begin to drop



Reality sets in and I start my journey back

The doors open up and the cars begin to pack



Continuing to play their songs, from Park Street to North

Station.

Just another nameless, face, they live throughout our nation



I write this poem to salute that man, and more I never knew,

Your voice is heard, loud and clear, this one's for you.



Though many times society will leave you asking why,

Never let the spirit fade, your song will never die.