The Man
 
The old man smoked his pipe
And sung all day.
Loggers were ready to take a swipe
At a man who loved to play---
But play not much but sitting at one
Place enough to call it a hobby.
I saw his head in clouds of smoke,
His face caught in an eternal joke.
My peers thought he had no use, no plan,
Only a spectator in life’s lobby,
 
But I catch him at times in tears,
Muttering, muttering words, words.
Many stories but I know not what to believe,
A sillier me regarded him with disdain.
 
My elders then warned me to be careful
Of how I treated this man.
They say they found him tearful,
Alone, bloodied, dried by sun
On plains of fresh grass and dead bodies---
They brought him in to be part of us.
They say he survived the massacre
Of his tribe---we have accepted him
But he cannot wash the strangeness away,
He lives in the ghosts of his people.
 
I see him shake with whatever he fears.
Muttering, muttering words, words.
He outlived carnage only to live
Same moments over again.