mirrors

it was a short walk for the old man,
leaving his three story walk up not
far from the park. his bench, the bench
he thought of as his, was near the lake,
which wasn't much of a lake at all.
the water poured in from the overflows
of neighborhood drains that lay just beyond
the thin barrier of trees, pines
and oaks, scrub brush and chain link
fences if you looked hard enough, or
it was winter, and the trees bare of leaves.
but it was a short walk with his cane,
down the steps, down the slope of sidewalk,
his bag of bread in one hand, his hat
tight, the brim pulled down, his overcoat
loose, but the collar up now
that he felt the wind.
the spring was still cold enough to keep
people away, especially in the early
morning, having it all to himself,
to walk the gravel sand, to throw bread
to the gathering geese, the stray gulls
who had wandered far from the bay,
or sea, he had this shallow pond to himself,
to remember the loves of his life,
those women, that loved him, those
that had passed on, those that
he let slip through his hands.
but he had forgiven himself, as one must
do with age, not staying in the nether
world of what ifs, not wondering
what could have been. it was good enough
now to be alive, to be here, to be
tossing bread into the air, gone before
hitting the mirrored circle of water.