Common Tears

It is a mild December day in the commons. A good day for a walk, With an unlicensed cigarette. The trees provide their skeletal memories, And the pigeons poke forlornly, In the debris near the trashcans. On one of the benches (so odd that people stop To look, to think perhaps, and then Move on) Are three large translucent plastic bags Full of wrapped gifts. Abandoned? The next bench is 20 feet away. On it sits a man. His clothes are woodsy, chic, And new. He is sitting very still. Tears are streaming down his face. Rolling off his chin, Dripping on his plaid shirt, But he never lifts his hand to wipe his eyes. People pause at the bags of gifts, And hurry past the tears. I take a deep puff, And do the same.