An old man mutters to himself.
It's early on a Monday morning, foggy and cold;
And the city sidewalk seems sad and broad,
An abandoned highway, colder than usual,
And a strange place for his soliloquy.
What he's saying sounds urgent, important,
Someone needs to know,
Needs to do something soon.
I look around, but there's not a soul in sight;
And I'm glad when I convince myself
That it's not me he's urging.
I mail the package, overnight to another coast,
Trusting in the hands, and planes, and schedule
That make miracles happen.
And when I've paid for all this,
I return to my rusty car and the old man's
Still there, under his tree, muttering.
What about my miracle, he says,
What about the way they pass me by,
And the way they check the time,
Or plug another number into another device.
I was somebody once, he says,
And I am somebody now,
And I really think somebody should now
That I still could be somebody.
If I just got my hands on that miracle.
As I'm driving away, I look again
And his lips are still moving, under the tree.
And it hits me right then that he looks very much
Like a Sunday School teacher I had long ago,
Who read out of an old book,
Stories of compassion and communion.
