Twice he came on aged legs
Chipped toes and cracked feet,
Twice I saw his eyes
Yellow and sullen,
His back returned to humble beginnings
As a babe taking his first steps.
“Here comes that queer man” I once said
“He speaks not words not even in song.”
First he clears and he gathers,
Then he tends as a father,
Scrubs all grime and algae
Lest we slip in exuberance.
Always with his faded trench coat,
Sure to hide his waning body,
His old face cap
Sure to hide his deserted scalp.
At first light we run out
With our naked bodies
To preserve our virtue from the eying man,
Often enough, we arise late
When the gardener has commenced his tending,
You can think what you must,
But I swear he never stole a peek,
He continued with his trimming as though
We did not exist.
“Here comes that queer man,” I said again.
“He is no fool in his quiet ways
For the life we imagine is sweet
He knows to be two faced.”