Bman By The Railroad Track
As I head to work each morning,
by Barry A. Lanier
At dusk always coming right back.
This rugged, little man is sitting,
In his chair, by the railroad track.
Always cross-legged in his ole' schoolchair,
Covered by smile, and the knapsack he bare.
Overheard townsfolk judge him by looks,
Tethered clothes, and apparent despair.
Shall we judge him only by looks,
Maybe his world fell apart?
Take the time to hear his story,
Maybe feel all the love in his heart.
Is he homeless or hungry, maybe carefree.
Is he hurting or sick, or where he wants to be?
Pays little attention, to the heat and the cold,
Thought as I passed him, a story to be told?
Is he mentally challenged,
Or in the depths of disgrace?
If so be it, then why,
Always a smile on his face?
One evening I slowed, almost to stop,
My emotions and time, guarded by clock.
He held my focus, grande smile on his face,
Extended hand, and a beckoned embrace.
A surrealstic thought, the Messiah returned?
All alone at the track, not one ever learned.
He watched every car pass, then finally drift,
Not one ever stopped, to bear witness the gift.
Then I mounted the courage, one helping hand,
Not the Prodigal Son, just a common old man.
The smile in fact genuine, on unshaven face,
He removed layers of shirts, we hugged and embraced.
I sat on a stump. beside his rusty chair,
Telling his story, like a gentleman he sware.
We laughed and cried, gazing each other's eyes,
Then two hopes renewed, two men realized.
And today I still sense,
That all will be fine,
We both shared a moment,
That transcended time.