Street Performer

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On Saturdays, 
street artists are out,
downtown,
on Cuba Street.

Marking their patches of pavement,
between market stalls,
amongst passers-by, 
bending around corners, 
not in the way, just in the view.

Singing for nickels, 
dancing for laughs.

There he was, 
all young and bouncy inside his sneakers, 
pants low on hips, blue hearts sewn on knees, 
his mum did it for him, he tells me.

Just setting his circle, 
the show will start soon, 
he’s real good, he says, 
excellent in fact, 
real juggling acts, like in circuses, and
fire-eating, real fire mind you, 
made with kerosene, a real poison.

If I stay, he’s gonna show me, 
lots of people come and watch, 
he has a regular crowd now, 
does acrobatics, dangerous stuff and for real, 
no tricks, like some others do,
no, not him,
he is for real.

Just stay for a while, the show is about to start,
mind if I have a spare smoke and a lighter, 
the show is gonna be awesome, 
he’s been doing it for a while, 
his folks are still in shock, 
but he does what he loves, and that’s all
that matters to him,
to make people laugh.

Just stay till the end, 
it’s gonna be great, 
he’ll pass the hat around,
you know how it is,
must pay rent, 
buy beer, 
loving what you do, 
does not,
you understand,
pay bills.