The Walking Man

The Walking Man A man walks each night Down the path behind my house Tonight I see him As I have each night before It is promptly eight o’clock I see his green hat Wool, hanging over his eyes Wears a thick, red scarf Left, right, left, he gets closer Can see his breath beneath the lamplight Lamp is flickering A gust of wind rattles the pane He stares straight ahead Neither a glance left nor right Marches forward on the path Does he sense me here Trusting I’ll greet his night stroll Someone waiting there Strangely, I rely on him To emerge from the distance