There's a man I’ve thought of
late at night, when
I am drifting off to sleep
or when I'm walking down
any of the autumnal suburb streets.

I've seen him many times,
but never face-to-face.
I've only seen him from
the corner of my
small pupiled bloodshot eye.
When I turn, he's been replaced
by someone whose tongue is
rougher to the ear.

O blonded one,
oh, brunette creature slouching west,
I don't know you,
don't think I ever fully will.

While in the library
I discovered others sought him too:
the poet from Concord,
the tramp from County Wicklow,
the supermarket visiter wandering at night.
Were they ever found or
were they just glimpses from the side?

He's a god among us men.
I plan on searching for him, still.