Man With a Hat ~

When we were boys
he would come walking down Penn Street
on light and measured gait
every day at noontime
dressed in suit and tie—

and on his head 
a black bowler hat.

He came down the sidewalk
opposite ours, unnoticed,
like the sun came
or dandelions in spring:
a ritual so certain
we hardly noted.

We never asked who he was.
Never needed to know.
But some sixty years later
restless memory flashed him back,
inquiring, eager to fill that void.

He is no longer with us,

but he is etched in memory

as one who had lived among us:

a life that was formed here,
imbued with what was given him here—
that staid carriage,
that confidence,
that contented air.
What he possessed
shone out from him
in some wondrous wise,
making us one with him,
and him, one we prized.