Staring At The Ground

There is an old man in my town
That walks around
Between 10:00 and 11:00
At night.

A pale photographic shadow
Of who he once was...

At least under streetlights.

I am usually walking my dogs then
And cross paths with him
Quite often.

He doesn’t seem to have a map
Nor a curriculum

Walking
His only agenda
As I find him all over the place.

I don’t know who he is
Or where he lives.

He is strangely endearing.

He is frail
And hunchbacked
To the point
Where he is looking
Directly at the ground.

I am always careful
With the dogs around him
To the point where
I think he senses
Our approach.

He recognizes our footsteps
Or our breathing
Or the dogs pulling
Hard on their leashes.

I see him just ahead
Staring straight down
Holding onto a tree
Or a telephone pole
For pause
As we pass.

I warn
Repeatedly

“Coming through!”

Offering greetings
As we slither by.

“How ya doing old timer?”
“Having a good night?”

As we’ve gotten
To know each other
Like this

He usually profers
A gentle laugh
Or a faint
Casual

“Hello.”

Or

“Hi there.”

It’s our dance.

We waltz
Several times a week.

Sometimes
I think about engaging
With him more so

But
Then
Always
I come to the thought

That on nights like this

It is much more pleasant
And rewarding
To turn off the color
And enjoy
The creatures
That inhabit
This black and white world
Preferring to let them keep
Their secrets.

Whilst I
Hold on to mine.