Vanishing Point

Vanishing Point

Vanishing Point

A Poem by Holly Day

There is safety in cellos and pianos and tubas, in that

you almost never see some homeless man slumped over either.

It’s always a violinist or an accordion player slumped under a lightpost

a guitar player with their case full of loose change, a saxophonist

wrapped protectively around their instrument, even in sleep.

 

 

I imagine that if you were a homeless cello player,

you could curl up in the case on rainy nights, prop your cello

up in some shadowed alley where only cats and stray dogs

would stumble on it. And a grand piano, while not exactly portable

has plenty of room for shelter beneath the lid, or better yet

space for a man to stretch out in a huddle of blankets underneath.

 

You Were There

You Were There