Blind Man's Blues

Blind old man plays his flute

oblivious of charity. I pay
his soul a dollar; feel, within
my collar, the rise of a blush
like the round moon owning

the sky. Or was it the silent
crescent of a grin, encapsulating
the taste of savoring
a blind man’s Pied Piper skill?

With a flute he calls the moon
to paint the puddle by his wheelchair-throne,
then pipes her on her way.

Oh with a flute he roots boys
like sudden trees to sweet spots
aching for melody –

then gently, oh ever so gently

like the wind.....pipes them on their way.