Poetry

The dance of pipes

Bubbles drift down the side street

From the flute of reeds

Played by the boy

Busking for spare change.

Passersby see their reflections in

The rippling surface as the orbs hang

In the air before them.

Some linger, entranced

And see something more.

Futures near and far

and scenes of indeterminate time.

They slip a coin into the waiting hat

And when it jingles full

The boy smiles, sneaking off on legs

Furred with short brown fleece and

Feet of cloven hooves.