Promenade

By: Charles Bukowski

each night
well, almost every night
early in the evening
I see the old man
and his small black and white dog.
It’s dark on these streets
and no matter how often he has seen me
he always gives me 
a look that is frightened
and yet bold –
bold because his small brittle dog is 
with him.
he wears old clothing
a wrinkled cap
cotton gloves
large square-toed shoes.
we never speak.
he is my age but I feel younger…
he and his dog give me a feeling of 
peace.
they belong
like the street signs
the lawns
the yellow windows
the sidewalks
the sirens and the telephone
wires.
the driveways
the parked cars
the moon when there is a moon.