Across the street, on a bench, under a tree
Sits a man wearing a black spring jacket
On his head is a cream cowboy hat
Between his lips dangles a cigarette
In his hands he holds lightly
Two leashes
One red one black
At the end of each,
Sitting quietly are a pair of huge
White balls of fur.
All three sit quietly, gently
Passively observing the light flow of traffic
In front of the library steps
Every time he takes a puff
He makes sure he turns his head away.
It is not a sunny day
And there is a nip in the air
and every now and then
A ball of fur gives a quick shudder
as though to flick off an errant thought.
The three sit there
friends
companions
partners in silent observation.
With a last puff, the old man
Gets up
So do his balls of fur,
They cross the street
and walk out of view.
perhaps to find
A quieter place.
Disjoint Wisdom 