I once met a man....

I once met a man

who baked cookies for breakfast

with chocolate chips inside.

The people I knew thought that

this was strange but I didn't think

it strange at all, because I couldn't

help wonder that if this man

made cookies for breakfast,

what else could he do with his mind.

Standing still,

this man was making music,

a voice that went unnoticed

except to a very few.

It wasn't the kind of music you're thinking of

as far as I could tell.

It was that soft slow waltz.

It was that quarter note of a life deferred.

His music, it comes from a chord,

a note,

a rhythm

that he wants to record.

Stolen, some may claim,

from the outer reaches of the atmosphere,

kept hidden on the pages until more lines unfold.

He doesn't exactly know how one note leads to another

as he sits staring onto the page.

Sometimes for minutes or even hours

until some voice inside,

whether in dreams when he is sleeping

or the sound of the song when he is awake,

tells him the time is ripe for reaping.

And this same man had unopened letters in his pocket

with a red rubber band wrapped around.

The people I knew thought that this was strange,

but I didn't think it strange at all because I couldn't help wonder

that if this man had unopened letters in his pocket,

what other dreams of his were deferred.

And who's to say that this man who no one knew,

standing there, making music,

wasn't looking out his window

noticing and wondering all that he sees.

Could it be mine of some other face.....

......less in the crowd

haunted by the former days

of when our words were buried

hidden between the fragments on the blue-inked page.

And this man,

standing still

making music

singing out that whole note

no longer had his dreams denied

while we lingered there

waiting for the sunny day that never came

filling in the blanks that were cut and pasted to our soul

wishing for the bell to ring

to chase the dreams that others hold.

Our dreams postponed....