In His Solitude

I wonder where he has gone,

the man who would sit 

on this bench

every day

in his solitude.

For he was always alone.

He would stretch out his arms 

across the back of the bench

so that he filled it

leaving no space

for anyone else.

So there were no conversations,

or even “good mornings”.

Perhaps he didn’t need them

but he looked so sad

as all passed by

his gloomy barrier.

And now

no one else sits there

and I wonder where he is.

If he’s still alone

still gloomy.

I sit there

pondering,

thinking about him

my arms outstretched.

He haunts me.

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