Monday, January 26, 2015

Passersby

He knows who I am.
The grocer on the corner.
And even if I am out on a stroll,
with no agenda, or money,
he lets me take home
some biscuits to dip
in my evening tea.
Because he knows me.
He knows me.
The rickety old guard,
in his rickety old guardhouse.
His calloused, wrinkled fingers
wave as I pass by.
They brought me home once,
a frail old lady
who had happened to
collapse in the street.
He led them to my house
and opened the door.
He has a key.
Because he knows me.
And they too had
brought me home, to my home,
because they know who I am.
And that's all there is to it really.
Being remembered.
A little.