Jacob Wilson speculates about the private life of a stranger

Today I eavesdropped on a silent conversation
And bore quiet witness to a solitary communion.
I watched a man contemplating water,

Standing still and silent, gazing at ripples and waves,
At blue and green currents, at sunken shopping carts
And beer cans glimmering like treasure in the sunlight
That filtered down through the foggy water.

The man was old and his image—
Leaning against the metal rail of a footbridge
One leg bent idly back, its weight resting on its toes
Staring with fixed eyes at the river passing underneath—
Struck me as sadness embodied.
What memories, what ghosts must be swimming
Through the river of his thoughts, tormenting him.

How many times had he come here with past friends—
Like the three younger men standing just yards behind,
Fishing poles in hand, quick jests on tongues?
And how long ago was it when he took his children here—
Like the family not ten feet away,
To sit, feet dangling over the water,
And toss pieces of moldy bread to the seagulls?

Walking by him I wondered
Have his friends—his kids—passed him by
Like the current flowing below?
Or, a happier thought, has he just gone for a stroll,
Perhaps in need of some peace and quiet,
A place to think about things his playful grandkids
And joking friends can’t understand?

Either could be the case, but as for me,
I’d like to think that by now, as I write this,
The old man has just opened the large oak door
Of his house and three blonde-haired and
Dirt-kneed kids have run up to him, squealing
In excitement, trying to see if he’s brought them back
Turkish Delights, as he does every time they visit.