For David, in the rain this morning

The man in the rain that walked past the dumpster,
following the two dogs—one leashed and one not,
shuffled his feet as he trudged to the door
of the room that he rents
by the week
near the cloverleaf exit
where I commute every day.

He could have been anyone—
his blonde hair receding,
the height he once knew
is less than it was.
Weighed down by his years;
though not really so many,
each doubles or triples
with each drink he takes.

His shoulders are sodden
with rain and with anger.
His feet don’t remember
the days he would dance
through leaves with the careless
abandon of childhood,
or with a laughing blonde baby
atop of his shoes.

His pockets are empty
except for his fingers;
his dreams have all dried up,
his memories are gone.
Where have you gone to,
my blue-eyed brother?
And do you remember
the days we were young?