I like to sit and watch myself go by,
I chose the safety of the passing crowd
and though sometimes I try to catch my eye,
a nod, a smile, but nothing said out loud,
no word of warning, hint of coming joy
that otherwise might slip beneath the crush,
something beneath the notice of a boy
for whom the world is always in a rush,
an old man smiling with an absent nod
that might be meant for anyone or none,
an ordinary thing but slightly odd
a detail that might come back later on
years on perhaps, but still so sharp and strong
I’ll know it marked the moment things went wrong.
©WILLIAM JOHN WATKINS
William John Watkins 