The Man in the Park

in the late afternoon
he sat on the stone bench
in the pocket park,
his back to the wind,
his face warmed by the sun,
his large black
duffel bag at his feet.
in the early evening,
he started pacing along
the neighbor’s fence like
a caged animal.
by nightfall, I could see
his face illuminated by
his cell phone, checking
for a message from someone
who has forgotten him,
who has left him,
who will never arrive?
late at night, the black
duffel was gone, there
was no man in the park.