As if each set of arms
were grown for a talent
I neglected, or for each time

I’ve turned down gigs
at churches. And don’t God
always take a humbling

hand to those who shun
him publicly? The morning
I woke like this, I wondered

if I’d gotten myself into a whale
of a situation, like Jonah.
Now my change cup sits out

like a spare palm, like that
of the blind man outside
the gates of a temple

called “Beautiful”—only
instead of ignoring me,
people gather to watch

what must be a circus act —
no bearded ladies or fire eaters,
though; just me outside

a metro station, playing
for mere coins—one set
of hands holding an acoustic

guitar, another angling a flute
to pursed lips, and the other
rapidly smacking congas.