Driftwood

Walking home from the park at dusk
on a warm day for early January
I saw him in an outer doorway,
leaning against the arched entrance
of the library’s outdoor reading area,
smoking a cigarette
in the shadows.

He couldn’t face the light
or look me in the eye,
but he glanced at me, sideways,
looked away, knowing I knew
why he’d shown up here.

Even in profile
I could see the sadness.
He was a bit apologetic
but his jaw was set,
determined, he had a job to do —
maybe more than one,
or someone more important than usual,
from how almost repentant he looked.

My anger, his empathy,
wouldn’t stop him.
“You’re a motherfucking coward.”
I could see it stung
because he knew it was true.

“Someday you’ll have to come for me.”
He flinched. It was a fight he’d lost before,
and wasn’t too keen to fight again,
but he straightened his shoulders,
took one last deep puff of his cigarette,
flicked it to the ground
and stomped it with his heel
as he turned and disappeared
like smoke in the shadows.

Leaving me to wonder
about the details of his warning
and which ones I love
would feel his cold hand on their shoulders
in this dark, cold, dying year.