His narrow frame, punctuated with grey, nondescript suit and tie

Piques my curiosity as I pass him,

A quotidian occurrence, me passing,

Walking,

Crossing his path with mine.

After months of purposed ignorance of my gaze,

He bobs his head once, acknowledging me as passerby.

Progress.

Another month, and his mouth forms a quarter-smile while passing,

A companion to the head bob,

Which becomes a nod once he sees

I have gifted him with a full-toothed smile.

Now, five days a week, we exchange what I know is

Silent and unspoken connection.

At times I notice his absence from our crossing.

I wonder if he notices mine.

There is no romanticist idea about it,

Only a comradery of feeling.

He’d rather be outside.

I’d rather be in nature.

The box-building treats us like prisoners,

Offering only cruelty as we trade time

For money, for food, for comfort,

For family.

Our nodding smiles convey a solidarity of mind.

One day, if we are careful, tip-toe around the mire,

We’ll escape this required workday week.

He will throw off the suit, tie, starchy shirt.

I will loosen the knots in my neck, my shoulders, my gut.

He will choose a lake full of boats and bass.

I will slip into a quiet and mountainous ancient sea village.

Maybe he has a family, but I think not.

It’s always the same suit.

He seems a wiry man, fettered with peculiarities.

He might see that I am a poet spirit, wishing always for the wind.

Does he see me, or my binding?

I see both of him- his humanity and the soul he hides.

It’s intuition, my idea of him, but I must be right.

He never objects.