There is a quiet sort of man,
Walking down the central lane,
Water dripping from umbrella's span,
Held aloft to keep away the rain.
He moves with an understated stride,
His face and eyes downcast but bright,
And his motions quietly dignified,
As he walks across my sight.
I peer as close as I may dare,
Into his quiet downturned face,
Whatever his quiet affair,
On his features leaves no trace.
I watch him as he continues on,
Moving in a quiet sort of way,
His distractions quietly withdrawn,
No matter how deeply I may survey.
I do not intrude upon his space,
And if he noticed he did not betray,
But rather with a quiet sort of grace,
This quiet sort of man quietly walked away.














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