The tyranny of the past 
sweeps over tent city, 
baking in the sun, undulating 
waves in yellow light. 
The ghostman crouched against 
the wall stares at me with 
dark eye sockets wrapped tightly 
by the sun’s deep exhale. 
His left arm outstretched before me. 
His right hand floating above 
the forearm like he is playing 
a sideways harp. 
I sit and listen, but the asphalt 
burns more than his sad song.