The Flute Player
In the subway, a flute player,
at his feet, cents, and dimes.
He is young, skinny,
large peppery Adam’s apple
bobbing,
all sharp elbows and pursed lips,
an old time preacher channeling Bach,
not hell-fire, but more the flame
of creation.
At a distance,
watching him hunched over the notes -
too shy to stand in the presence,
I interlope; try not to intrude.
Is the breath in his lungs
from God or hunger?
God does not bother
with questions,
unconcerned as She is
with the speaker or the listener.
She does come with Her music however,
when I hunger.
Copyright © Eric Ashford | Year Posted 2022
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