I wrote two poems because I liked this prompt.
The young, talented, beautiful Irish busker’s angelic voice,
unique and indescribable, called to me from Grafton Street.
Her glancing smile and raised brow calls all to pay homage
to the gift that brings me to resonated tears. My raspy old poem.
Yo, Billy Boy
When we said, “Call for me,”
we invited a friend, always a boy,
usually Jimmy, to stand outside and yell,
“Hello, Bill (or Billy)” loud enough
to be heard from any part of the house
and responded to, if anyone cared.
Look both ways on Grafton in Dublin.
Mind the gaps in such a marvelous voice.