The Dandelion Man

Only the street lamps knew where he lived –
In the shack on a plot of land, no one knows his name
One could easily assume he was just another poor man
A poor man who had it all.
The sidewalk was his dust encrusted throne.
His wise and royal features, his face was like stretched leather brown and supple
Hands with protruding knuckles and palms worn, worked and constantly waving
The greetings he offered to the passerby's blaring.
Lights glaring at him through busy eyes -
A solitary figure honing the ground he stood on and proudly, without words announcing his presence I saw him as the man who waved to the drivers of cars and the concrete beaters.
Like any descent person I would always wave back and continue my merry way.
The mornings that he made were the happiest of days.
I saw him for as long as I could remember, returning his humble gesture
This is a game of life and the key of this game was to spot what was missing
Weeks went by and I hardly noticed the familiarity of waving dissipate
His dominion was all that was left, his royal plot of land.
But as the years go by, I still remember the longevity in his eyes
One never notices the dandelion seeds take flight, and land in the soil
One always knows of the yellow flower that age to dainty quills and flies.
Silhouetted yellow flowers are reminders that he will never be forgotten.
His name was James B. Granville.