Saturday, August 3, 1985

Blind Man's Bluff

Walking down the street, rain pounds above my head.
I am dry
except for the errant drops that bypass my umbrella.

Yet I grumble along, and as I do
I hear a little tune coming closer;
the cheerful sound of whistling
in contrast to the dismal patter of falling rain.

Turning to find the whistler, who
like a robin singing in springtime,
brings an unanticipated joy to my breast

I see a man, without hat or umbrella,
galoshes or raincoat,
moving down the sidewalk toward me.

Water streams from hair turned shiny black,
running over closed eyes, and shifts midstream
to accommodate pursed lips still issuing their song.

The drops reach his chin
and fall to a coat
stained dark with moisture.

For the first time I notice that his gloveless hand
is curled around a battered aluminum cane,
which he taps right and left before him.

Tapping out a rhythm,
and with the rain,
making music.