The Artist

The world is filled with art, and in it comes those who are artists, painting their surroundings and dreams in ways sometimes only they can fully perceive. I've encountered and witnessed a grand amount of artistic folks in my life, both young and old, but no one quite like The Artist himself, whom I caught sketching away like a madman on a mix of coffee and coke on the Blue Line one day.
Who knows what the hell I was doing that day; most certainly I was heading somewhere and so was he, albeit in opposite directions but lives of our own, of course. I glanced over to him, merely a few seats away, to see him scribbling and doodling away an image on a pad (I believed he utilized a case of colored pencils for his creation), in-tuned with music plugged to his ears. His wavy and loose white hair flowed with the motion of the moving public train, while rocking simultaneously to what seemed like to be a mix of Beethoven and the Beatles. That's what he looked like to be: a Londoner stuck in the 60s/70s, always riding high to the waves of his day. He had a very peculiar pattern and rhythm, though. Something about the way he swayed and drew, ultimately focused yet so comfortable, amid strangers in a place where you can run into anyone or any action in the city.
This wondrous gent donned black clothing, while sporting black shades and wired in with tangled Apple earbuds - armed to the teeth with a sleight of hand that also caught the attention of a couple others around him. The Artist was fully immersed, dedicated to the craft, no matter the weather, place, or speed. He's probably one of the few residents I would have liked to have met. Get a glimpse into the worlds he sees and creates.

Street Drums

They flock to the middle of the busy streets for the sake of your attention, beating to the plastic buckets with drumsticks without the caution for public safety.
They swing and tap onto the bottom of these said buckets, gettin' down and out as cars drive right on  by.
They succumb to the same rhythm once the ideas run dry, huddling back to the corner swarm, for they never perform alone.
They don't mean you no harm, no, no, merely to show-off that they can drum.
They love to point with their sticks toward one or two cars, mumbling something or even nodding before positioning themselves in the midst of traffic; the stance of that of a concentrated hunchback.
They bang away, the instrument placed between their thighs, only to create sound for a moment before moving on to another spot.

Nick Cannon would be proud of them, though.