For a Friend

On a busy baking street in Alicante,

shaded by the entrance to Corte Inges,

you’ll find Juan Santiago most days.

Standing, straight as a die, playing

an old violin with dedicated gusto.

He’s no Nigel Kennedy, but he’ll

never miss a note of  the l’estate’s

languid day or the summer storm

reflected in manic Maisonnave traffic.

After siesta and a San Miguel or two

his Sarasate may stir the Gitano

blood in your veins to toss a coin.

But this morning he stands, empty

handed. No music to grace Alicante City.

His lonely violin case nestles by his feet.

Inside, a scatter of cents: euros;

and a note written in his classic hand.

“My friend has been stolen from me,

help me buy another so I can play

my music and the children can eat.”