NaPoWriMo Day 7 Poem 5 Underground Buskers

Martin has been dead for a year,

but if he woke up a man,

he'd give good advice, 

he'd say never close your eyes

until you understand 

that you might be seeing things 

for the last time. 

Martin misses seeing the buskers on his way to work,

even though (when alive) he thought they were useless -

what a way to spend your time - 

playing to un-listening rush hour audiences, 

everyone between their own journey.

Martin thought they were weird 

to attempt to command the attention

of London's un-ending city life.

Every day he paced by the buskers
as the rhythm tried to say something
to his body - he showed no symptoms
of listening.

If he thought about this hard, he'd learn

that his job was killing him, he'd learn
that resting is being kind to yourself 

and that is all the music was asking -

slow down, listen -

it is the only way to know if you are ok.