The Guitar Man

He accompanies the clatter of dishes
and the whirring cappuccino machine,
the ornament of laughing voices,
the clicking of keys,
the clean sounds of creation
muddled by grubby restaurant hands.

His gentle fingers pluck stretched strings,
stroking the body of an old spanish guitar,
fingers I have seen somewhere before.

He strums,
one knee raised like a prayer,
fighting the noise,
but then there is nothing else
in the world but fingers
and familiar songs
and the silence between.