you entered the trembling train
   & waited for the rest
   to sit or stand away from
you   before you played that fragment
   of a song    more childish than
   real    on your miniature guitar
sounding from an amplifier strapped to your belt
if dionysus were a poor bluesman
   with wrinkled fingers & a
   strained voice    he too would
keep to the brooklyn subways at night & pass
   his worn cowboy hat around for spare change
   his eyes hidden beneath sunglasses
his body clothed only in black
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