Sometimes on my way to work
There at the bus stop on my corner
There will be the old man,
Grizzled grey in overalls
A cane at his side
Waiting as if for the bus
A kind and patient look on his face
I passed the corner five days a week
And it took a month to notice him
Every day in the morning at the bus stop
On the bench with his cane.
I used to say I didn’t like people
But its not true
I’ve always liked people.
But there were times I didn’t like myself so
You know how that goes.
Or do you?
I hope not.
I hope so.
Sometimes they ask you with
Whom would you like to sit
On a bench for an hour and talk
Well, there is Ghandi and Lincoln
And James Stewart always seemed nice
My dad, or my great-grandfather
Who they say was run over one night
When he was down on his luck.
Or my first love.
Would she remember me?
Would she remember me
The way I remember her?
Her nose, cold in the December night
Her cheeks blushed, lips soft
Her hands warm in my pockets
And mine in hers.
This I would like to know.
It took a month to notice him
There on the bench in the morning
It took another week to notice something else.
In the afternoon, returning home from work
He was still there with his beard and his cane.
Still that kind and patient expression.
Had he been there all day?
Yes he had, and here in the afternoon
There are a group of people gathered around him
And children
And they all seem to be listening to him.
I think he must like people.
I think he and his cane
Make the journey everyday
And he holds court there.
He does not ride the bus, ever.
Maybe one day I’ll go sit with him.
Just me and him and Abe Lincoln.
srenfro 11/2020
