A strolling man
decides to sit,
checks his time,
rests his hip.
I notice his age,
his hair white,
I notice his face,
his tired eyes.
He's watching the children,
an expression of envy,
he catches my eyes,
my curiosity.
I swallow anxiety,
retrieve my breath,
he's invited me to sit,
I accept.
As I approach,
he makes way,
I take my seat,
'thank you', I say.
He points to the children
...'see? '
'Their as fragile as me you know'
He laughs, 'at least one similarity.'
I listen to his stories,
he's been deprived,
he talks of ambitions,
regrets I find.
A pause of serenity, we rest our mouths,
watch the children,
their simplicities profound...
I glance back to my side,
he responds,
a wrinkled smile,
he nods.
'let me show you something,
let me give,
I have unfinished youth,
for you to live.'
'Take this journal,
my book of memory,
write of your ambitions,
your accomplishments and tragedies.'
'I've waited for such sincerity
and in a young man I have found it,
an adventurous soul I trust,
to fulfill my lifes crevices.'
'I will wait for you
in the place which we go,
I'll be sitting on the bench,
that we both know'...
...I am now
the old man who strolls,
with a journal completed,
stories to be told.
I remember the white haired man
and his favor,
I hope he remembers me,
and the bench we sat together.
Mathieu Hotte
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-strolling-man-s-journal/
