June Sawyers wrote this poem—as a way to record her experience— after listening to a musician named Andrew perform in Printers Row.
It came out of nowhere
At first we barely noticed
And then, a pause
Wait
Who is that?
We just had to stop and listen
A voice
We hear a voice
On a late Monday afternoon
But then we were confused
The voice sounded so professional, so . . . good
Was it a recording or live?
We strain to listen and then we recognize the familiar melodies
Sam Smith’s “Stay with Me”
The Righteous Brothers
What initially sounds like a Sam Cooke song is actually
Chris Stapleton’s “Tennessee Whiskey”
And then we saw him
Standing outside Dearborn Station
A young man wearing a red t-shirt with black shorts
A small gathering listens to the makeshift concert
Young parents and their infant in a pram
A woman in a wheelchair
Who was he? Where did he come from?
And why here? Why now? At this moment?
A few minutes later
At the patio of the wine shop
Some just sat there
Oblivious to the voice
Lost in their own conversation
But how could they not be moved?
I continue to listen
The purity of the voice
The authentic emotion pouring out of the songs
Tears fall from my eyes
And then he is gone
A street musician with the voice of an angel
