There is a man who walks by the sea

There is a man who walks by the sea

Bearing the weight of the rags on his back His feet dirty and calloused His face wild like fire

I see him — in mornings before the yacht club is up in afternoons while the jet set loom overhead at night when my fear and loneliness ache for his

And I drive by.

I’ve wanted to stop — to offer him socks for his feet a sandwich to cure his pangs an ear for a conversation the cash I suddenly don’t need

But I drive by.

My face strains in torment A second or two and then lapses And while I sleep in my bed at peace

There is a man who walks by the sea

June 2009