The man was punctual
and picked the black bench
each day, the rain bothered him,
yet he sat, small tablet
discrete, his black pen
moving in staccato rhythms,
while on-lookers dashed
off through wet grass,
their ankles wet, their hair
flustered by frenzied drops,
our man, still as stone,
scribbled, dark lines
under plastic, shape like
an etching depicting moonlight
over a dark staircase, sounds
of night heard if you
listened.
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(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.