I walk past a bench where sits a man,
His face upon which troubles ran
Some years ago, now, I presume,
And hard to be, now, to exhume.
But rivulettes they make in sweat,
E’en in the cold they steam and let
A past not known to be by men
Of passing eye nor askance yen.
I imagine he has tales to tell,
Of things one couldn’t even sell,
If thawed from frozen tongue it could
be vented, and, without, it would
Grab passers-by, and bleed their ears
Of long-lost tempts from yonder years.
And learned men would burst to tears
At resolution of their fears
Made solid by this lonesome man
By which there used their troubles ran.