People talk to me everywhere;
on the train, in the supermarket,
at the beach, in the park.
It may be my face, I don't know
People, strangers, just tell me things,
but why must they tell me everything?
Once I stopped to question
an old man about his dog.
He turned to me, a sad look on his face. "Its my son's dog," he said,
"he died today."
His heart was broken.
I sat next to him on the bench
and he held my hand
and sobbed out his story;
I listened, nodding, letting him talk,
helplessly whispering comforting phrases. The dog pressed against his knees and whimpered. I think he was heartbroken, too.
All I could do was pet the dog and
hold the old man's hand.
I watched him walk away, hoping I'd helped. I never forgot him.
Everywhere I go people still talk to me; now I try to hear what they're saying.