Moments in Tokyo
Typhoon Saturday, Oct. 12, 2019
I walked seven minutes from my comfy hotel
to the Aoyama Cemetery.
As I entered, a homeless man was crouching
In a narrow bike shelter, his cover better
Than my clear plastic umbrella.
His bare feet were drying on white towels.
I worried about my footwear in the splattering rain.
When I passed him again he was standing looking
Out as if to sea, over wet headstones,
An imagination still in his possession.
I recognised that in his having so little
He actually had more in his dealing with
Weathers, so close to his existence,
So far from my sheltered life where
Change is a such a nuisance.
I went back later to see how he was,
The only “Ohaiyo gozaimasu” he would hear.
But there were only bikes in the shelter.
As I looked out over the sea of stones,
Thinking he could be sheltering there,
An old woman in her late 80s went by,
Cocooned in a crinkly white plastic coat and leggings,
Crouching low on her bike, moving fixedly forward
In the rain,
Going where I could only imagine,
Too old for any job like
Cleaning, serving, waitressing or caring.
The homeless man had given way to bicycles.
And without bag or basket, so not shopping.
Perhaps there was a grandchild.
Never too old for activities like
Bonsai tending, ikebana or shodo.
I could only fancify in the rain.
The homeless man so alone, the cycling woman so old
Helped me brave the coming storm.