I watched a man trip as he got off the bus today.
He sat across from me,
His holey clothes smelled of sour earth
and his tangled hair fell stiff to his shoulders.
I was caught off guard when he looked up and our eyes met.
There was still fire there. I understood why when I saw how he clutched his guitar: his only asset, his only friend, his only reminder of beauty.

He tripped, they gasped, he fell, they stood halfway as if to help (any decent human should at least pretend). He stood, visibly shaking, picking up his guitar, the top part of the neck dangling by 6 lifeless strings, and limped down 6th St., eager to be invisible again.

Why do the most beautiful things have to break?