In the cruel, wrenching chill
of nature's November betrayal,
he is often to be found there,
though he is rarely sought out.
He sits alone upon the wooden
bench outside the nursing home,
in someone's cast-off overcoat,
bedraggled slippers never still
upon his agitated feet.
Rocking unevenly back and forth,
crying out loud, in a voice no
longer used for conversation,
his lament. A wall that breaks
and shatters in the bitter,
Passersby with busy lives
walk in wide circles around him,
glancing hurriedly into the sky,
muttering about the chance of snow.
Scrambling for any random thought
to keep themselves from hearing.
-- Deb Cooper