We sat, two men, on the same park bench.
Unusually, we spoke, one to another.
Of this, of that, and then of the quality of bushes.
He, not as a gardener might speak, but instead,
As a patron, who nightly sleeps beneath one.
He told me of the virtues of the best. Thick enough,
to keep off the worst of the rain. Low enough,
to easily crawl under, to remain hidden
from the drunk, or the worried policeman,
checking to see you still breathed.
Next, we talked of families. He hoped, still,
to be reunited with his. To see his children, his wife,
and once more, return to his home, precious word.
A home with a bed, a roof, safe and secure,
far from the bush he would sleep under tonight.
At bedtime, I thought of him, as I pulled my sheets,
the finest Egyptian cotton, around me,
and listened to the rain falling outside.
As the wind shook the windows, I wondered,
which bush would offer him shelter tonight?
Reflections on life in Poetry and Prose. 