wandering poet
in a world of his own—
rain or shine
There he goes. He lives down the street, around the bend. For years now, I’ve seen him passing by along neighborhood streets walking around with umbrella and a carryall bag, or two. He’s always well dressed, and with care. He never hurries. Now and then he appears miles away, just walking. I like to imagine if asked where’s he going or why, he might say something like, “Go slow, my friend. Every day comes and every day goes, don’t miss out. You never know how the day will unfold. You just never know.”
