I met two men late one night
at Yonge and Dundas Square.
We didn't know each other
but our stories we did share.
We sat for hours in the cold,
warmed by our intrigue.
Hearing of experiences
we may never see.
One of them, from Africa,
is famous in his land.
He spends each winter here,
something most won't understand.
While others flee our cold,
and may swelter in their heat,
he loves the polar opposites
and drums to his own beat.
He tells us of his wife,
his daughters and grandkids,
his sister and his parents,
the family that's half his.
Six months out of each year
he leaves them all behind.
He says he needs the space
to empty out his mind.
He loves being in Canada
where he goes unrecognized.
He can go where he wants
without the gazing eyes.
He's fluent in six languages
yet he rarely ever speaks.
He prefers his time alone
to sit quietly and read.
Every now and then
he socializes in the streets.
He shares his words of wisdom
with the strangers that he meets.
Eager to hear from others,
he turns to the other man
who tells us of his journeys
and how he just was in Japan.
He gives us a verbal tour
and describes Italy and France,
Germany, China, Spain, Greece,
the list sure is advanced.
He speaks eight languages
and has lived around the world.
He goes where life brings him
yet still can't find a girl.
Stuck living in the shadows
of his older brother,
he tells us how his dreams
disappointed his poor mother.
While his family wanted doctors,
he has directing on his mind.
He wants to work with Speilberg,
films have always caught his eye.
We continue talking,
late into the night.
Strangers sharing souls,
discussing in delight.
Finally it's time
we go our separate ways.
Hours passed in minutes,
we could probably talk for days.
We've been sitting in the rain
and we notice that we're drenched.
You never know what you'll learn
from strangers on a bench.