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The man lay on his back in the center of the green.
He appeared from nowhere to lie still upon the grass.
Had he fallen from a silent plane to some odd death
Ignored and unnoticed by the walkers that pass?
What a strange sight across the expanse of open ground.
His arms are thrown straight back, like old discarded clay poles,
Awaiting some Good Samaritan to check his pulse.
But no one will approach the man to save their souls.
Strollers go by in their noontime lunchtime procession
Circling the neo-brick sidewalks without a glance
At this fallen forgotten wayfarer among them.
He is but a woeful stranger, why take a chance?
Eugene sits on the splintery surface of a bench
Chasing an occasional yellow jacket away
And eating his lunch and watching over his book top
The man still so still upon the grass where he lay.
The sky is high and the trees are a bright Kelly green.
The day is toasty beneath the yellow noontime sun.
The man jumps to his feet and waves his hands over head.
Just another jogger stretching out for his run.
Eugene marks his place carefully and closes his book.
He pauses one last moment to enjoy the quiet scene
With a sense of adventure lost, he walks back to work,
Ending one more Monday in the park with Eugene.