Beans for Breakfast

There’s a busker perched at the top of a little side set of stairs on the way down to the waterfront, a hippy. She strums her guitar distractedly. When a group of people walks past, when she sits up ridged, picks up the tempo and sings at the sky. No one can hear her; her voice is competing with the sound of traffic swooshing by on the Alaskan Way Viaduct behind her. She relaxes again and lets out a sigh when she’s sure that the last of the tourists have walked by on their way up to Pike Place. She’s feeling dejected. No one has dropped change in the guitar case that sits open beside her – up out of reach of anyone who doesn’t go out of his way to approach the singer that can’t be heard.