…talking to the old man sitting on his bench in the park.

His black-felt-fedora covering his yarmulke.

His threadbare-black-cardigan-vest, all four buttons buttoned,

even summers heat.

He feeds his pigeons and squirrels every day.

Says “Hello!” or “Greetings!” to everyone passing by.

Some take the time to sit with him,

to, “Chew the breeze,” as he says in his

not quite identifiable Eastern European accent.

Or to ask him a life defining question.

But he never pontificates.

He only hints at brilliant answers

so you have to think about

what he might have been thinking about

for you to think about.

And then you get up,

say, “See ya later!”

and he says, “If the Lord is willing and the river don’t rise!”

like he always does to remind you

of the ever present possibility of catastrophe.

And you walk away.

But every couple of steps you look back

to make sure the old guy is still

sitting on his bench, watching you

while he feeds the pigeons and squirrels,

says, “Hello!” or “Greetings!” to by-passers

and gives hints to them like you think you remember

him giving you.

And he surprises you with a furtive wave of his hand,

almost a blessing just between you and him

as you’re walking away, following the path to somewhere

you think he might have told you about…

maybe.