That is Priceless by Steve Melcher for February 17, 2014

The minstrel in the gallery looked down upon the smiling faces. He met the gazes - observed the spaces between the old men’s cackle. He brewed a song of love and hatred - oblique suggestions - and he waited. He polarized the pumpkin-eaters - static-humming panel-beaters - freshly day-glow’d factory cheaters (salaried and collar-scrubbing). He titillated men-of-action - belly warming, hands still rubbing on the parts they never mention. He pacified the nappy-suffering, infant-bleating one-line jokers - T.V. documentary makers (overfed and undertakers). Sunday paper backgammon players - family-scarred and women-haters. Then he called the band down to the stage and he looked at all the friends he’d made.