My feet finally rooted

I dare to the window to watch

The funny ol’ man who wanders with a triangular kind of walk, steady though

I listen faithfully for his footsteps, just because

Just because he almost never makes a sound otherwise

Except that he talks to the sunrise

And I’ll hear him again later when I sit for breakfast

Afternoons, while I’m in the yard, there’s the clickety-clack of his feet heading home 

Amusingly, and not often enough, he shouts random thoughts to the flowers, who he seems to love so well

Once, at breakfast, I got brave

I asked whether he was in need

I whispered actually, but he heard, then did at once oblige and set a spell

Now, at night, he knocks

I wake to talk, but he hides

Funny ol’ man