Curbside

Curbside.
The growl of cars rolling by within arm’s reach, taking seconds of rap music, country, rock and roll with them. None stay long enough to compete with the old harmonica man across from me. Blues belted out from under a crazy tilted hat, cracked lips singing under closed eyes. People yelling from the river races provide background with bells from the playground, splash and dash of fountains, peals from wind chimes. Shrill gossip from old women enjoying the sun, sudden chime of a shop door bell announcing entry, faint scuff of cats feet on the railing far above. The quick tapping of little feet in time with giggles from an escaping toddler, joyful with five seconds of freedom.
Street music’s not like any other music, laid together with steady pressure like palms of hands or notes chasing each other like children. It’s insistent beat, a chin-up and rush of skateboard wheels and casual talk and walk. I should get up and join in, dance on the sidewalk, add my own bit of rhythm to the city. But the sun is warm here, and as I hesitate, faintly my heartbeat sounds in my ears, adding its own, unique unfaltering pulse to the music.
So I smile, and settle back on curbside, just another beat on the street.