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.