The great man picked up his ice axe and left the hut
So we stood in the rain to watch him go.
Then later a vagrant guy took my hand
Said "Kia ora, bro"
and sniffed my knuckles.
Wouldn't stay to talk though I wanted him to
and the pang of his leaving was sharp.
Why was that?
I thought about my Dad
who fits somewhere between but shares traits with both.
How sharp will that leaving be?
And me, the watcher, the note writer, looking for reasons
fitting the pieces but not seeing the puzzle.
Trying to make something from nothing
with the wrong tools.
But I got a glimpse of an old photo.
A boy and a tram going by.
He's watching, noting remembering
Is that me or my Dad or my son?
We are all stops on the same line.
So we waited for the bus
life flowing past.
While my son slept on my lap.