it only comes once

You sit every day on a polystyrene box blowing despair into a harmonica. You are not old. You are not handicapped. You're a gypsy. You spend every single day sitting at the entrance of an underground car park waiting for a few coins to fall at your feet. Winter, Spring, Summer and Winter, we greet each other when I walk past your pitch. You stop playing. You lower your head and smile softly to me. Then continue to blow the tunes only you can play. I raise my hand and smile back to you. And each time I do, I wonder whether this is what you really want out of life.