The guitar player on a park bench
that I passed by in the evening
and did not photograph
had the voice of a 70s singer.
He sang in French
and with a lightness and openness of heart
almost unbearable to hear
like the recording of a singer my parents loved
that I happened upon as a girl.
A voice so unearthly,
so terribly naked.
I always thought
why would anyone want to feel this way?
What is such sweet and short lived beauty worth?
How can it ever be held?
So I could not take a photo of him.
I just listened to him as I strolled by
and when I was far enough ahead
and his song could no longer reach me,
I looked back.