musingsonwomenshealth.com

Reflections on 40 years as a doctor in Women's Health

The Can-Counter


I used to see him

Balancing

On the road’s narrow shoulder

As if it were a tightrope

Between two worlds.

He was old

But carefully dressed,

And he wandered

Along the thin strip of gravel,

Like Age

Was all the permission he needed

To stare into the ditch

Beside him.

His hair ruffled

With every rush of wind

As cars and trucks

Roared past

With angry eyes.

But his expression said

He was on his road,

Not theirs.

The first time I saw him,

I thought

He might be searching

For something he’d seen

Falling from a passing car,

But he was there

Most days,

Still looking for it.

I stopped one day

To talk to him.

“Did you lose something?” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Just looking,” he answered

As if it was obvious.

“For what, though?” I said;

I couldn’t guess.

“Cans,” was his reply,

Patience

Still written on his face.

A truck passed much too close

And his body shook

With the turbulence.

“I never see you with a bag,”

I felt I should add,

Although I suppose

It was insensitive

As another truck

Almost blew him

Off the road.

“I just count ‘em”

He answered with a smile.

“Why would you do that?”

I asked,

As if I had a right to know.

He shrugged.

“It’s more exciting than

Sitting at home

Alone,”

He said,

Then tiptoed

Along the tightrope shoulder,

Bracing himself

While another truck

And its blaring horn

Approached.

I haven’t seen him

For a while now.

I’d like to think

He is still walking

On a quiet road

Somewhere,

But counting dreams

Not cans,

And maybe

Not alone…

gozzter

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