Deep in the heart of Los Angeles,
there was a man who wore a worn grey hat,
and a green ripped up jacket
the grey beard on his face covered the highway blues
his eyes were red, bloodshot, torn.
He looked at me with a genuine, crooked smile and said,
“You are beautiful, may I draw you?”
as he pulled out his sole possession:
the paper and pen.
When the portrait was finished, my first thought was,
“Man, that is a beautiful picture.”
I said to the artist, “This is great, man but I ain’t got any money.”
He smiled, and touched my shoulder.
“It is a gift! From me to you!”
Then he wandered off,
and I never saw the artist again.
I kept the picture, and would look at it from time to time
to remember who I was.