- Non-Erotic Poetry
- Crossing Guard
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Today, on my way to God only knows where, I saw a young girl crossing the street, an old man acting as her official crossing guard. I was struck with a sense of awe – there before me was the string of so many generations, so much knowledge learned and knowledge still to learn, linked hand in hand. If only it were possible to pass on experience through the touch of our fingers, the young girl would have stopped in her tracks, struck dumb and immobile by the flood of information, a repertoire the kind that only time can form.
What would she have done then? I imagine that she would have looked up at the old man, her mouth agape, her large eyes filled with unshed tears. His tears, the tears of his friends and family. The tears of the past and of memories. She would have understood, in such a way that only the very old, the nearly dying, can understand.
What kind of person would she grow into?
But, alas, knowledge does not pass through osmosis, and his memories remained his own. She let go of his hand, when they reached the other side, and she went along her way, enjoying her sticky red lollipop as only a child can.
And he crossed the street again, this time alone.
Only, could it be... that on his tongue, he sensed the faintest taste of cherry?
