Man Alone

I wonder where he has gone,
the man who would sit
on this bench
every day
before waters rose.
He was always alone
with the view.
Perhaps it became too warm
for him,
now it’s too wet.
He would stretch out his arms
across the back of the bench
so that he filled it.
Though he was
always alone
there never seemed space
for anyone else.
So there were no conversations,
or even “good mornings”.
He didn’t seem to need them.
So we all passed by.
And now
no one can sit there
and there’s no view,
only water
I wonder where he is.
And if he’s still alone,
missing his view.…/poems-to-start…/lynn-white/


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