Music Therapy

There was a man playing music on my bus

The 71 congrado-congresso, toda la amazonas,

Sube, sigue por favor, cierran las puertas.

He held a charango in his hand

A zampona hung from his neck

And chajchas hung from his wrist.

He was adorned with a brightly colored poncho,

An Ecuador bag, and loose white pants

He played from 5 or 10 minutes.

I was so glad he was there

I had been craving my ipod on the bus lately

It’s too dangerous to take my 160 gb.

I haven’t bought a smaller one yet

My brother in law keeps promising

To bring me his extra one but never does.

I took out ten cents to give him, and,

Considered offering him a dollar to say on till my stop.

When he was done he and I applauded together.

The rest of the bus was silent.

Then he began to speak.

He spoke of how we are the one, aboriginal, mestizo race,

And how we mustn't forget that

He offered cds for a dollar, and asked each person individually for money.

He thanked everyone, but made a few choice remarks,

When he was denied by a few people in a row.

He didn’t seem very happy,

But there was a moment when he was playing

That he and I smiled at each other

Music can do that.

Music therapy.

I gave him my dime and he dropped all the coins

In his brightly colored Ecuador bag

And hopped off the bus.