On the River Bank
He sat on a small smelly stool,
crooked fishing rod in hand.
At times he nodded in slumber,
at times he pulled his oblique line,
baited his hook, and threw it back
into the muddy waters of the river.
He was always there, weather permitting.
He came from nowhere
and disappeared from sight.
I wondered who he was.
Such is life, men come, men go,
oft we wonder who they are.
Oft we're too lazy to care
since our narcissus attitude
excludes all strangers, it was our habit.
Was it not easier for me
to move up to him and ask,
strike a conversation on nonsensical ideas,
and become indifferent friends?
Instead I turned my back
and went back to my house
which once I called a home.
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