Poem Street Fiddler By Julia Vinograd

A young black fiddler
naked except for a gold lamé loincloth
blowing in the wind, semi-egyptian,
and heavy anklets of morris bells
high stepped his way down the avenue
jaunty hip by step and turn.
And I expected to see King Tut
tut-tutting after him.



But no one gave him more than a glance
and a nod for the fiddle work.
And suddenly I didn't want to know why.
I didn't want the fiddler to be a balancing act
between silly and a tarot card
like so much of the street.
I didn't want hungry meanings to curl around this smile
like mosquitoes.
I didn't want to see someone following him
in ordinary time passing out flyers
about a band or a rally or a reason.
I've had too many explanations;
it's like strangling in health food.
I didn't even want a poem
he was complete in himself.
He came from nowhere, he was lovely and he's gone
cradling his old fiddle against his young neck.