There’s that one that you’ve seen,
passing by gauzy curtains at night.
By chance, a sidelong glance.
A stooped shadow,
seeming to peer back at passing cars.
His round shoulders, sloped by time.
On clockwork, as ever,
There he is, still.
Each night, as you make your way to wintry home.
In wonderment, you muse:
Does he, perhaps, scratch bundles of five on his wall,
as at Shawshank?
Is there another, moldering in a deadened back room?
Or does he wait
for a knock,
thinking to trade hot tea and a biscuit
for someone who will listen?