The Andalusian busker's
daily siesta is a song
through the thin vein of the yellow line.
In between each murmur,
she says "This instrument is
as old as Spain! My CD is only three Euro!"
The violin lay smooth
on the edge of her veil.
It keeps the tempo against the tinny
pings of ten cent coins in
it's case. I want to hold the
instrument by its base like
a fat disc. I want to pluck the strings.
I want to be on the list of its curious touchers:
with careful toddlers, and Spanish bohemians
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