The old man sweeps the parking lot
Before the sun appears;
He pushes dirt or snow around
As he has done for years
I pass him every morning, but
I do not know his name;
He waves to me as I go by,
As I then, do the same
Until the day comes when I see
He’s not there anymore;
I scan obituaries, though
I am not sure who for
I feel a blinding in my eyes,
A strange, descending mist:
For one human connection
That I made, and that
I missed
I hope you will meet him! Thank you for your writing!
This is very good indeed
Thank You
Best Wishes
john
Got some sniffling action going on here …
Brilliant!