The flute man

You hear him, huddled, before you see him,

the flute man,

providing interludes

for the sounding quarter hours.

Day in, day out.

Accompanied always

by his faithful sleeping dog,

the flute man is unheeding

of the passing weather

or the passers-by.

He asks for little

as he sweetens the Ludlow air

with his recycled notes.

You wonder who he is,

and how he’s here, year after year.

You have heard it all before,

and thought of giving

some coins, or even paper notes,

for this, sweet-sounding,

pastime.

If that is what it is.

But time passes,

and you think it better

just to enjoy the moment.

And let sleeping dogs lie.