THE MUSICAL BEGGAR

He keeps a flute in his boot.

Plays it for strangers, listens for little crashes of loot.

Sleeps on a stone bench near the ocean.

Sometimes gets drunk, hollers, causes commotion.

On good days he flaps about

in his loose oversized castoff suit

looking as if he might fly

or cry when the sun shines blindness

across his two bum eyes.

Passersby know not

he once brought the house down

with Ellington in a jazzy joint in Harlem town.