The Park Man

By Damon Bailey

I enjoyed watching the dogs and birds in the park, not people though, too disingenuous.

Except for him: an aged anomaly with a comforting grin. I often found him playing makeshift drums or conversing with strangers on any topic imaginable. Keith Moon was his favorite.

During winter, I wished he had warmth. In the summer, I wished he had water. The pairing of steady neurological debilitation and lack of family money anchored him in that park.

Once, he said I reminded him of his daughter and that we should meet. I’ll tell him someday. For now, this will have to do.