Impatiently the flakes of snow brushed off the dust on his cheek-
Half of the still face of a man lying prone in a thin plastic seat
His heart in his cavernous hand, his loss in the bustling street

She nary spent a moment's stop to take in the man on the bench,
But the brush on his skin lingered in her pensive walk to work
What was it to know the wind's desolate blow?
Have no one around but the ice and the snow?
What thoughts could he have spent?
Yet
she bled into the distant crowd covering up the concrete

They went about their various worlds entranced with disbodied sorrows
Taking the chance to dream about the far-off worlds of others
But no raw comprehension of the man on the bench or glancing sidestep could stay;
One by one, heart to mind,
All of them walked away.