Finding Reality

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!