An old man walked up to me
wearing a grey old man's hat,
a striped old man's sweater,
carrying a newspaper and an umbrella
both furled under one arm --
"do you know which, uh," he quavered,
"where Union Station is?"

and I smiled as I pointed, because I did know
"yep," I replied, "right over there."
He turned creakily, the old man,
"that's it, eh? right over there,"
looking at the vast marble building
which glowed in the sun
behind a dry fountain
flanked by lions.

I nodded, seated on a bench in the shade,
and as he walked off, I smiled again --
comforted by the thought
that this same conversation had surely occurred daily
in and near this very spot
since the old man was as young
as I must have been, the last time
that I sat on this bench in the shade.