FLUTIST

In a suburb train

As I commute to my college

Daily, I see

A paralytic, blind flutist

Crawling smoothly, as the crowd

Gives him way, between the rows

Of seats, with

His Fingers, blocking and relieving

The holes, his mouth,

Too, on a hole

Of his wooden flute

Pumping air from

The deepest roots

A cracked aluminium plate

On his lap

Which jingled music

Whenever a coin was planked

His breath

Which rises above the noise;

His breath

Which earns him his survival.