Man in the Park

The deformed old man 

whose body was like 

the barnacle-covered underside

of an old wooden dock

sat beneath the tree

throwing out seeds

to the pigeons

in the park

on a sunny day in June.

One could not even make out his eyes

from under the heavy growths

on his face.

The sadness I felt was my own

and had nothing to do with him.

Part of me wanted to kiss that skin,

Wash it in my tears.

Or maybe even just

let him pour some of the seeds into my hand

and listen to him laugh and talk to the birds,

tell them

not to be afraid.