Those who hear the minstrels

Amidst the sound of carillon bells, Bach bouncing off the clouds
A lone golfer in the sandpit putts a ball and sighs as it returns
Little girls in pink dresses jump and pirouette, giggling
A gray haired woman with freckles claps her hands
This is the mosh pit for seniors, her son remarks. His teenage daughter smirks
as I sit in the shade of a tree reserved for royalty,

Those who hear the minstrels

Like the guitarist who sings American Pie outside an ice cream shop
On a Sunday in August while
Tourists at tables spoon vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry into their mouths
and toss dollars into his cup.
I sit in the shade of an awning across the street
singing of broken church bells
Little girls in shorts jump over the steps in front of me, smiling
A veteran in a wheelchair, flag draped across the back,
Leans toward me and asks where there's an accessible bathroom
And how I like my power chair as the minstrel ends his song.