by Miriam Weinstein
Each afternoon and into early evening, I see the same man alone on the wooden park bench a block from my house. Metal baskets on his bicycle crammed with pieces of clothing, a blue plaid blanket, a worn paperback book. From a distance he reminds me of Grandpa—something about the slant of his head bent over the newspaper, the curve in his upper back. Flip-flops on bare feet, frayed sweatshirt, torn jeans—all that protect his body this chilly day. Thoughts crowd my mind like autumn leaves blown against the foot-bridge. He must be homeless. Does he spend nights in the old tent tethered at the top of the hill? Like Grandpa, he sits without calling attention to himself. I nod in his direction, a token attempt at hello, close as I care to go. Unlike Grandpa, this man perched on a hard plank sculpts futility. As dusk settles, I pick up my pace to pass him. The busy trill of song birds fills the air. Does he hear them twittering in trees in search of a spot to roost? Almost home, I remember the list of chores awaiting me. Before I know it, I have let his plight take flight.
Crowds of crows darken
the sky. Their cries, a hailstorm
of heckles hover.
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