The music pulls me down the promenade,
like an invisible lasso.
I no longer see the gulls on the beach,
hear the waves collapsing on the shore,
no longer see the mountains
or the other pedestrians.
There is only the music,
the acoustic guitar,
the melodic voice.
The musician is clearly talented,
well-practiced,
original,
at home in his music
and his instrument.
He has tattooed knuckles,
wears jeans and sneakers,
a winter coat.
On his head,
a mystery.
It’s a horse’s head,
the fabric cut
so that the musician can see,
so that his voice is unobstructed.
I stop to listen,
get lost in a memory of a past lover,
tap my foot.
I wonder about the horse’s head.
There is anonymity there.
I could ask him about it, of course,
what it means,
whether or not it’s just a gimmick,
whether he thinks he needs it to gain attention,
so that people will come to see,
and to listen,
even though the music speaks for itself.
But I don’t want the mystery solved.
I just imagine that the musician is famous,
hiding in plain sight,
only for the joy of his passing listeners.