Weight

As dawn spreads her silent wings
gently over the town with the pink skies,
down in front of the old, out-of-use synagogue
a man sits there and cries.

Against the harsh stigma of crying men,
his tears roll down his face
unashamedly- he never looks up.
The passerby thinks he’s a disgrace.

He wears an old tattered yarmulke
upon his balding grey head.
His jacket worn and very thin;
His frame seemed very underfed.

Breath’s talons creep out from their dark nests,
because its bitterly cold.
The weather be not the only thing bitter-
the man has made his heart to be sold.

The man’s coal eyes droop towards the ground,
making his face weird but it doesn’t detract.
from the wrinkles making deep valleys upon his face,
but he’s not that old, in fact.

Does he mourn the destruction of the temple?
That happened so long ago?
He seems very devout, God he cannot live without.
Is he truly Jewish, they want to know.

Then a strong, fresh gale sweeps down from the skies,
blowing the man’s long, dark scarf back.
And something surprising- it doesn’t belong!-
glitters momentarily before the wind lacks.

A crucifix on a simple gold chain
hangs down from his slender neck.
A symbol of Christianity?
I focus my eyes closer to check.

But the passerby never noticed
this oddity and others.
They just walk on by-
no concern for one another.

The man is deaf but he can hear.
The man is blind but he can see.
He has no teeth but still remains full.
He is suffocating- how can this be?

He curses the world for its beauty
and he praises it for its hate.
The light seems dark and hate like love,
The man’s soul is in a constant debate.

Staring at the oblivious, ignorant people,
the man remembers a time when he
could frivolously play and easily blend in;
when he could once ignore reality.

He is not a bum or a hermit-
on his wrist lies an Audemars Piguet,
His fingers are well manicured.
Even more contradictions, by the way.

What happened to this unsuspecting man?
Would anyone care to ask?
What purpose, what symbol is he
who must hide behind a mask?

I pass this man now,
as I travel on the way to school.
I wonder does anyone else see,
the trouble instead of ridicule.

As I come within talking distance
he slowly looks up at me.
His dark eyes suddenly become light;
his smile a bit off-key.

Taken aback, I instantly stop
my quick-paced unobservant walk.
He winks at me with a sad excuse for a smirk
and looks down again never to talk.

Someone pushes me and yells “Move!”.
I’m obviously blocking the way…
One last glance, I pick up my heavy feet,
I cannot even think to stay.

Later, as day revokes its precious light,
which we tend to never appreciate at all,
I walk back by the old synagogue,
an idea completely off the wall.

Yarmulke, cross, tattered jacket, expensive watch.
The contradictions fill my head.
Is this what he had wanted?
For me to feel the unsaid?

I stop and stare at him a little
out of the way of the passerby.
Then I continue a brisk pace home
not watching- trying to deny.

He is lonely in a world that doesn’t understand
the concepts and knowledge weighed upon his back.
This is why everyday, being lost, he sits
in front of the synagogue, off track.

Fast, clumsy, brisk, rush, swift
A blind man sees more than they do.
But listen to the blind man they will not, for he cannot see-
which means he cannot think, talk, or teach too.

The people only care about their destination
and not the road along the way.
But the man who sits and enjoys the journey
know that life is better when you stray.

As the passerby continue their brisk pace past the synagogue,
they only see a man who cries.
But I, who can truly see him,
I see a man who dies.

-Summer Whiteman