The Blues

Spit the harmonica man has been wailing for decades on the corner for change. After making his bus fare and enough for a loaf of bread, he packs up his life in his bicycle’s basket and waddles to somewhere, joints creaking, a hat covering bullet holes bored in the ’60s. Returning hours later, his belly heaving, he tells me he lost a notebook. It had two songs in it. Seeing nothing, I apologize. Spit shrugs and says once he lost a notebook that had a thousand songs in it, so losing two was no big deal; he blames his mind.

Photo credit: Kerrreee