One Man Band

His music is between the wrinkles in his raisin feet, grains of asphalt rhythm-ground black by sandpapered leather. He sloshes from right to left, filling one hand and then the other, a juggler inside a balloon. And it was all hands and ribs and mallets and xylophones, and cymbals and cheeks, and that backbeat of why as he banged his naked head against the wall.