ALL THE WHAT-NOT
I CANNOT DO
Some wounds fester, and limbs fall off.
Or so, it seems. There is a secondary ending
to most great stories - and here the lady is
bringing more. This is a Bank Street story,
and it is late afternoon.
Two men with guitars are playing an Alabama
song; slaves and the auction block and all that
old folkie stuff. Their pose is just right, and
the one in the hat comes across real well. I
ask their names, and he says 'Jyrus Wayne.'
Well, no, I'd never heard a name like that
before. It was his alone, the guy with the
hat. The other fellow was Ronnie James.
I told them they were good and I liked the
sound. We bought each other drinks, one
round. And the lady is bringing more.
I've met a busker or two in my day. One
fellow, came all the way here from England.
We met at the bar called 'Swift's' and had a
few - he was a jolly good fellow and I hated
to see him move on. Now, five years later,
I can't even remember his name.
(And the lady is bringing more).