If I take one step forward
down this path in the park
the transparent man
sitting on the bench down the way
will walk up to me, offering his hand.
He usually hops aboard his flying machine
and traverses the skies at dusk, painting the night
canvas with speckled stars.
Always returning me promptly at
nine, he bids farewell
and goes in a flash.
So usually, I avoid the path entirely
on my morning walks.