A busker’s hat lays on the pavement to collect the coins thrown by the public, both appreciative and indifferent. He sings his and other’s songs, picking out the tunes on his guitar, a smile on his face as he nods his thanks to those who give and look him in the eye, though there are not many who lift their faces as they pass. They dig into the corners of their pockets as they approach and drag out a coin without even bothering to see it’s worth before tossing it into the hat as they hurry on by.
As the crowds thin and the shop keepers begin to pull down shutters and lock doors, the busker finishes the song he is singing, packs away his guitar in the battered and stickered case and scoops up the old leather hat half filled with coins and smiles down at the day’s takings. His voice has fed him for another day.