HARD TIMES

You can tell it’s hard times for the arts

By how many buskers are out hustling

Quarters on street corners. You can tell

By their bewildered looks, the exceeding

Refinement of their style and their swell

Manners that they are unaccustomed

To such crude environs and to the rude

Rebuffs of passers by with no intention

Of being detained. Pity the poor buggers,

Forced by the twin threats of starvation

And creditors, from their studios, stages

And pits out into the dinful, bustling

Market. They are such sensitive creatures—

Can’t you see how your lack of appreciation

For the nuances of their interpretations

Plunges them into sullen depression?

Can’t you see how brutal it is for them

To be grateful for the handful of change

You toss in their box as you stroll by?