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Poem
I saw a look of hurt so primordial, the dust teared and cleared
Every wrinkle, every agony,
Every twinkle in his eye hopelessly wrought by words
He struggled with a bag of old books,
His white hair scraggly, his breathing heavy

I, with sorrow wrenching from my soul,
Sought his own, in a sad smile that he so feverishly caught

Moments passed, as the older man disappeared,
But I sat there, ready to speak to him if he should return
For such a catch in the eye
Cannot soon dim and die with chance

He returned swiftly,
“Excuse me, will you be here long?”
I said, “Sure. What is it?”
He looked into my eyes and smiled,
“Would you mind watching my books for just a bit?
My clarinet is in the building, I need to go fetch it from a friend.”

“Sure,” Said I. “No problem.”

He thanked me, setting the bag down near me
And walked with confidence to the building,
To retrieve his instrument

I pondered his life, the pain in his eyes,
And for a moment wondered how it might compare to mine
This old man, struggling with a massive bag of books,
An even greater weight pressing upon his practiced brain
A brain filled with the pure notes of a mechanism that soars

He returned almost joyously, thanking me once again,
Relaying to me his previous sufferings,
Unkind, uncouth words,
In his mind, sure and inerasable
 “Have you ever been treated so ill you wished to die?
Have you ever felt that little?
Felt so powerless, and failing?
Surely I must be boring you. . .”
When his countenance calmed and I reassured him,
 Offering my sympathetic ear,
 And many a sensitive nod, 
He asked my name before leaving forever

“Ah…do you know the song ‘Laura’?”
He hummed the tune and I beamed, nodding,
Remembering the haunting melody
It was as if he was anticipating that nod,
That he knew I recognized such a strange, haunting tune
By his happy, alighted smile

So when he went on his way,
With his heavy bag of books,
And his clarinet tucked safely in his black box,
Our pains sauntered on to less fortunate fellows
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