The quiet man walks through the town, alone. Sits
in cafés, pours & drinks his coffee, alone. Taps
his pencil on the table, watches the cars pass—cars filled
with friends,
with couples, with families—on their way
to anywhere he is not.
Convinces
himself
at some point in time: the world has grown tired/of listening. That,
if only one would but sit/stilled,
one could hear the earth/ache.
Struck dumb.
Under a silver & black
picnic-quilt of night
—perhaps (he thinks)—he is become
the quietest man in Creation, uninvited—the only one
(Dear Heart, is this so hard to imagine?)—forgiven.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
