At the lunch hour I pull from the shelf of the public library a book on prosody. Can you dance without knowing the steps? “Yes. You’re better off,” the famous poet said. Uncomfortable eye contact is made with a man drifting from aisle to aisle. “Can you help me? I’m lost in my search for books on screenwriting.” He too is seeking a receptacle for his pain. Today I am not the savior of his world. Today I send him to the librarian. At the bag check before the exit I say, “So you’re off to graduate school,” to the young woman clutching to her chest a prep book on the GRE. Who is this strange man who has barged into her world and dreams? So her eyes say. In the park the same woman lies on the grass, the open book covering her face as a shield from the sun. I am elated with my book on prosody. I read three pages and am full of hope. Then I do what I do best. I put the book away and stare at the woman. A man has to have a life. A man has to have a time when he can just stare at the real thing. To my left the lost man I left behind. He too has found a book and brought it to the park. He too is staring, and directly at me.
July 2003