A Busker at the Farmer’s Market

There’s a shit-show market south of here where

Old men selling raspas push carts

Through stalled crowds and cars

Brush against buskers on their way

Out for a Sunday in the country.

There was a man there,

Played fiddle like he was trying to kill a cat.

Eyes like watery nettles, always carried a bible.

People said he was crazy, used to fight Russians and win. 

You'd never know it from looking at him.

Heard he stole a bunch of old rag songs,

Songs like tearing the throat out 

from your dead mother's photographs.

Moved down to Florida

Only plays now when he has to.