joe

Husband, father, roles that passed,
Outlived to all, outlast by none,
He feeds the birds in Central Park,
His name is Joe, he tells no one.

He doesn’t speak, his voice has gone.
He hears but clicks and snips and drone.
He sits and waits for time to pass.
His name is Joe, he tells no one.

“Why is he there?” a young child asks.
(What warmth he knew is surely gone.)
“Don't get too close,” a mother says.
His name is Joe, he tells no one.

He died, right there, a week ago.
Was left for ‘live by those who knew
His sentry spot, his life’s last hasp.
His name was Joe, he told no one.