by James Mackie
He wears the same clothes
every season in his seasona
migration of the four corners
of his world. Grace Street
and Allison, around to Meadow, then back
to Grace Street wearing his cap --
a cap that seems always worn
by just one immigrant
somewhere on the crowded
deck of an ocean liner
in old sepia photographs.
At each station,
he stands first slumped
then rigid and intent,
listening, piercing the air
with a fixed stare,
attentive to the slightest
shift of air. His hands are his only
instrument, propped on his hips,
elbows angeled, anchored
sharply in the wind. He flips
his right arm up crisply,
suddenly, when he recognizes
what is familiar, what he waits
for at his daily station.
All fingers tightly hoild
for a moment above his head
what he alone can release,
and in that instnat
his fingers open
and release their hold
on his childlike felicity.
He smiles in bliss edging
ecstasy, and in that instnat,
often, the sound of small
bells, silver bells,
are heard ringing,
ringing in the released
air of all childlike seasons.