Lone Folkie

There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park playing a rickety 5 string and hoot'in and holler'in. I have no idea what he is singing. There is no discernible melody. Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air to take some sort of measure before plunging back into his flailing guitar. After another stuttering burst he will stop/ then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/ punk operatic/ style nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/ he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough It's/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key. Beyond the realm of anything/ resembling cohesive musicality /rambunctiously obtuse yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light. His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/ You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/ and make of that an evening/ with class but I like the way this codger lets her rip/ this ragged chanteur/ airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style