Hero

At noon,

you'd walk in through the wooden door

on channel 12.

Your chin was always up

and your lips would stretch into a

no-reason, every-reason

smile

every day.

You'd transform from

overcoat to cardigan

zipped up to the neck

and then zipped down

to sternum's base

so your heart could breathe.

Workboots would leave --

one tossed from right

and caught lightly by the left --

and be replaced by comfortable canvas.

You would walk from Learning to Learned,

each sidewalk step a stone

in the splashing stream of

heartfelt intrigue.

Along your searching paths

you would ask us to be your f-r-i-e-n-d,

we accepted you each time

and walked with you to places

of invention: the peanut butter factory,

its endless conveyor belts;

of creativity: the richly painted art class

of the underclass;

and the most real of them all,

the place of make-believe: where a red trolley

and about four piano keys would take us

to cloudless skies and

where love spoke in puppet voices,

which we found out later

were almost all from your very own

ventriloquy.

We'd answer your questions

of gentle philosophy

from our couches, between sips

of our mini caprisuns,

and our elders would chuckle at

our eager replies.

But for certain we knew you heard us

and listened,

neighbor.