The Last Organ Grinder

Big muscles of the organ grinder, his biceps burning. Cranking springs, the tired, but cheerful, Italian chap. Many chapters of his life on streets of cold cement. His beard, silver tone; his worn hat filled with coins. You’d expect for the old legs to be moving, it rests as the tunes be calling, beckoning through windows. Accordion sounds be arousing smiles and curiosity. Melancholy dirges wet the shoulders of the bitties. Again the pedals and thighs grind along, travelling as the kids and townsfolk wave goodbye. On his merry way, feet tapping, ladies dancing, men puffing on their pipes and cigars. The music says so long. And another group gathers in the waning sun, waiting for their favorite song; and the grinder gladly plays, telling a story, with his barrel rolling, his pins caressed. Kaput - he moves into a museum, a blast from the past.