Percussion concussion,
only to those who aren’t
deaf—he hears, clearer
than the fact that
he cannot see.
“Alms to the poor
pouring pity
into your double-
shot espresso caramel
Machiavellian disaster!
“Bless your soul,
souls inundated
with endless, filled with
virtue, searing bright
caffeine! Bless you!”
They pull at their
ties and bindings,
cry and hug
his weathered body:
so inspired! they say.
At dusk he leaves,
fist bumps the baristas.
“How stupid, how blind,”
the blind man says
and shakes his cup.
