THE BLIND ACCORDIONIST

 

His plastic cup between his legs

he plays music in the dark

plucking an imagined keyboard.

Notes line up in his mind

each awaiting its turn,

and his fingers release

them from bondage

into the Michoacan air

and the ears of

passersby who now and then

toss a coin in his cup.

On the wooden chair

he perches like

potted plant on a stand.

Stone walls behind him

stone streets under

his feet. Every stone

unturned. Laid there

by ancient hands. To

be walked on, 

to be leaned against.

R. Rios