Walnut Street Man

[dervishspin]

Not every day,
not even most days,
but sometimes
when the dawnlight
spills generously from the sky,
and the weather is kind,
I see him.

Stock still,
eyes closed behind coke bottle
glasses, bald, skin stretched tight,
whipcord muscle, chin
thrust out toward the object of his devotion;
the sun.

The cityscape
and it's commuters ignore
the light bouncing off
chrome, glass, asphalt and
his face.  His rapture cannot be
understood in the context of their
Monday morning.

I too yearn for the sun,
for that moment when time stops,
when I can turn these limbs, this face
into it's caress. Forget I have a personality,
an agenda, thoughts on how the world works
and just be.

In the moment
I begin to envy him his simple ecstasy
I start to feel it, rising,
when -shadow light shadow - my car passes
under the Walnut Street bridge.