Fire burns like his verve.
He dances and stirs the peanuts
in a cast iron pan
with a pair of wooden spatulas.
His heart is in sync
with the wedding song that he plays.
The rhythmic movements of his limbs
entice the Sunday crowd on the shore.
A musical parching of peanuts.
Even the checking of the doneness
is through the dance.
His disheveled shirt and lungi
flutter in the moonlit wind.
No matter how scuzzy or clumsy,
performance produces pleasure.
The money that swells his pocket
or the presence of his lady,
what transforms his body?
There are fireflies in his sunken eyes.
Perhaps some chemical drug
is the riboflavin to his soul.
Melding passion with profession
is a precious art of life.
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