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Description
I like Monday afternoons in Central Park on a nice day. Just the right mix of European backpackers, uptown posh mothers, and that special New York green summer breeze.

He nods as I dropped the dollar bill into his guitar case.

"Thank you sir."

I asked if I could take a few pictures.

"Sure man," He smiles wryly, "But sorry about looking like a hobo... Guess I'm going for that Neil Young look... except he was already famous before he stopped caring about his appearance."

He laughed when I said it's all part of the charm.

Vern is "between apartments" at the moment. I guess that's the way homeless people describe it.

Then he sang. Dylan and Cash and Cave, with a voice that sounded like it had been soaked in whisky, rubbed by sandpaper then left in the smokehouse for twenty years. He sang like only a broken man with broken dreams could.

People came and went. Some dropped a quarter, some dropped a dollar, but they all went on their seperate ways before long, to the museum or the office or the girlfriend.

I passed him a cigarette as he finishes his song. Cigarettes suits him.

I told him I'm from New Zealand and his eyes lit up.

"Man, I watched a film from New Zealand the other day called... Whale Rider. What were those indigenous people... Eskimo or something?"

I laughed and told him they're called Maori.

"I knew you weren't quite Australian man... You accent is kinda different"

I smiled and dropped another dollar in his case.

Description
I like Monday afternoons in Central Park on a nice day. Just the right mix of European backpackers, uptown posh mothers, and that special New York green summer breeze.

He nods as I dropped the dollar bill into his guitar case.

"Thank you sir."

I asked if I could take a few pictures.

"Sure man," He smiles wryly, "But sorry about looking like a hobo... Guess I'm going for that Neil Young look... except he was already famous before he stopped caring about his appearance."

He laughed when I said it's all part of the charm.

Vern is "between apartments" at the moment. I guess that's the way homeless people describe it.

Then he sang. Dylan and Cash and Cave, with a voice that sounded like it had been soaked in whisky, rubbed by sandpaper then left in the smokehouse for twenty years. He sang like only a broken man with broken dreams could.

People came and went. Some dropped a quarter, some dropped a dollar, but they all went on their seperate ways before long, to the museum or the office or the girlfriend.

I passed him a cigarette as he finishes his song. Cigarettes suits him.

I told him I'm from New Zealand and his eyes lit up.

"Man, I watched a film from New Zealand the other day called... Whale Rider. What were those indigenous people... Eskimo or something?"

I laughed and told him they're called Maori.

"I knew you weren't quite Australian man... You accent is kinda different"

I smiled and dropped another dollar in his case.