Man on the Bus
With silk tie and leather shoes
a taunt face from years of high
anxiety and excitement
A daily newspaper tucked neatly
under arm
A brown paper bag of what
contents I know not
But his hands, they are not
hands of a well to do man
For they are soiled and scarred
He has not a ring on his
fingers and behind the
nails is blackened dirt
Yet his appearance minus the
hands is that of a lawyer
or a stock broker or a CEO or
some other high position
These two elements contradict each
other, his hands and his appearance
And what explanation for this,
He must be a gardener
on the weekends.
Another Man on the Bus
His over sized black loafers
The heels worn away at the
angle of his stride
His high water kakhis splashed
with mud from the early
February rain
Leaving his newspaper,
read cover to cover,
behind on the seat.
The Wall
All these names of
men I know not.
Oh how I am overcome
with sadness.
I look unto the wall and
there I see my own reflection.
As I trace a name with
my finger, I can almost
feel their pain.
And yet I know not.
How could so many die.
If only I were able to
stand steadfast as those
men had.
How strong and brave
they must have been.
The black granite wall with
all its names, seems to
stretch so far.
I see a wreath here and
now a flag in menory
of the one who never
shall return.
And still I know not.
