Nemo

He sat on the park bench The weight of ages Settled about his shoulders. Long dirty fingernails peeked From torn cotton gloves. A thin sweater, ripped and tattered, Barely provided protection, Battered shoes Their usefulness outlasted. But his eyes, Deep piercing blue Stared off seeing A distant past. Every once in a while, he nodded As though agreeing With some unseen companion. On the bench close by A well worn book of verse, Passages meticulously marked, Marginal notes Painstakingly written in a Neat and cultured hand. Noticing me, He moved, retrieved His book; reverently closed it. Then gently, almost tenderly, Placed it in his coat pocket. Rising slowly and with pain, Glancing neither right nor left He shuffled off, With a certain pride, The gait of a man Once used to power and respect. A man who somehow, Had become flotsam in the Backwaters of life And I wept. © 1998 Eugene R. Mariani