[Untitled]

Busker in Fairhaven

(Mourning our Dead)

Sprawled across metal bench

Sprattle legged

Skirt tucked between

Graying hair sprung wild.

Occasionally a passerby stops to listen, to toss spare coins into open case, to stare at this woman born from the earth,

Skin burnished by afternoon sun,

She leans to strike her mourning harp

Tuned low to sorrow’s ache,

Her call crescendos beyond city walls

Where names fall tender, settle into cracks

Tattered prayers flutter on invisible breath.