New town, new doctor,
unfamiliar location,
I’m early, for once. Nice day
to wait outdoors.
The park across the street has
a ring of benches,
all deserted. I cross and sit.
Spring. Birds singing.
Presently, the groundskeeper
stops trimming hedges,
sits quiet beside me, shears in
hand.
Who sits next to a stranger,
with other seats available?
A woman with a stroller takes a
seat.
Three students with textbooks
grab a bench.
Secretaries, bosses, store clerks
arrive
from up and down the street.
Few bring lunches.
They fill all the benches but
one, talking quietly.
Others come and stand, leaving
one bench open.
I ask my neighbor, “What’s
happening?”
He says, “Perdón, no inglés.”
Okay, I can handle this:
“¿Qué
pasa? ¿Qué esperan todos?”
He says, “Mira, el viejo tocará la guitarra.”
Sure enough, an old man in old
jeans and old sneakers
emerges from the doctor’s
office, cane in one hand,
guitar in the other. As he taps
across, the circle hushes.
He sits, silently tunes,
then begins finger picking a
quiet melody.
His tempo increases, fingers
flying,
crescendoes, picking,
strumming, slapping.
As he draws pure magic from the
strings,
several onlookers stamp feet in
time.
Others snap fingers, slap
knees.
A student’s pencils beat a
tattoo on a textbook.
A harmonica adds flavor.
The baby stops squalling.
Two little girls dance,
whirling round each other.
I don’t know how long this
lasts. Not long enough.
Just as my watch beeps, the old
man stops playing,
rises, and begins to pick his
way back to the office.
I raise my hands to applaud,
but my neighbor stops me:
“Por favor, no. Al viejo no le gusta el
aplauso.”
Okay, some people don’t like
acclaim.
Time for my appointment.
I enter the doctor’s office,
only to find the old man,
changed into scrubs. “Welcome,
I’m Doctor Jones.”
I have learned some things.
A circle of park benches might
be a concert hall.
A scruffy old man might be a
virtuoso musician
or your doctor.
Praiseworthy acts might not be
done for praise.
Random strangers may become a
circle of joy.
All of us are more than who we
seem.
Jesus said,
“Think anew. The
kingdom of heaven is upon us.”
Copyright ©2020, Paul H. Harder II
This poem is licensed under a Creative Commons
BY-NC-ND 4.0 License.
No, this poem is not autobiographical. I only wish!
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