The Silent Man

I remembered the man.

He wore a black suit at my church.

Sitting in the far back;

Always kneeling.

He never spoke a word with anyone.

He never spoke a language of any.

With the rosary in his hands.

His bowl haircut and dusty shoes;

He prays during an entire mass.

Then disappears right on cue.

I never talked to him.

He goes off with his back towards me

The pale dust on his pants.

Hands tucked in pockets with the rosary.

He scurries off, out of the church.

Tall, lean, and quiet.

Just a loner with his dusty suit.

His body disclosed and silent.

I could barely remember his face

I knew he had shallow cheeks;

But always the same haircut,

And the same dusty shoes on his feet.

A memory in my head;

The man in the back, eyes shut tight.

I observed him and he always fled;

Disappearing on sight.

Soon I will find you and read this poem.

I wanted to tell you of your importance.

For God could never forget you, and he showed it.

For he let me write a poem about my observance.

Remember me, as I did of you.

From the crowd's riot.

You were the silent man in the back.

And I, the child of the disquiet.