An old man, sitting in an aluminum chair,
leans toward the statue of a striding lion.
He is holding his left hand in his right hand,
tenderly stroking the skin
as if it were the warm flesh of a woman.
He had worked as a shoemaker
and loved the tiny hammers he used
to put new soles on old shoes.
Once he traveled to a foreign place and wept
as three men, holding down a beast of burden,
pounded nails into its feet.
In the trash receptacle, orange
peels and crumpled pink napkins,
huge lilies and hydrangeas
blossoming amid the garbage.
A long-haired figure in a heavy coat
walks slowly along
the avenue of light-filled trees,
living their mute lives,
shedding their red leaves.
Used with the permission of the author.