Under the bridge at Washington Street
        a man with acoustic guitar
    was plucking and singing again    in Spanish  
            always only in Spanish     
      once I would have called him an old man
    before I got old       now no one is old
      his voice amplifying    thanks to the bridge
shivering off iron girders       echoing concrete walls
becoming so huge       as if through a megaphone
but sweeter          rich and round       giant sugar cookie
         of a voice   traveling to our side of the river     
           my three year old walking partner 
twirled in place    that sounds big  
never asking       why would a man be singing? 
       near our chattering ducks 
who never lose hope we might one day
       defy the signs and feed them
river reeds        blooming yellow bells of Esperanza 
only a few hours distance     from camps of wire and concrete
     thin mattresses         aluminum foil sheets
        sisters and brothers whose stories we can’t really know
   whatever we think about them      what happens next
                     how hard it has been
    who is this man?      so many years
singing in winter        summer         no cup beside him
     not asking for anything       people run past with their dogs
ears plugged      their own music       
                       I don’t know where he lives       
         secret stories under the bridge
                 all these years of echo     
                   boy raising his arms  
                    dipping and stepping    
     singer        nodding his head     
                glad to be heard
    raising one hand     to both of us twirling
               solamente    por que?

               siempre        por que?