Tall and gangled, leaning
solidly rightwards on the
interstice of cane connecting
with wood, indentured to
injury and skeptically scanning the
faces forested below.

My memory spasms, then
falters as I study the
hard-edged lines of this
seeming stranger's face, a
familiarity aching from
pictures past, days spent
clutched in the menacing but
brotherly grasp of another
time, a not-so-other
place -- could it be him?

I wonder if perhaps he is
not so tall and gangled
enough. I search his ears for
the gauges that once
gaped in open greeting as
he strode down astride shops and
street kids, of which I was one.

I stare solid and un-
blinking into the steel
silence his eyes return, and
wonder, "Is that you, John?" If
it was, I am sorry for saying
nothing, for refusing to rattle the
fermented foundations of both our
younger days.

If not, then thank you,
stranger, unknown soldier, for
transporting me back, through
no effort of your own, to
a time when all seemed lost,
save, except, my self.