my name

uneven braids defined his hair
deep crevices demarcated quadrants of his face
his eyes betrayed any quest for agelessness
as did slick blue jeans cast in shades of black

he leaned back too far on the painted bench
his heels holding his place in the world
he knew he should have died a hundred times over
yet he looked at the sea as if he held the title deed

“malachi,” he spoke, as i stood watching him
passing judgement was easy to do
and my fears that he had died were solemnly dismissed.
“what brings you to my part of the globe?” he asked sincerely.
and as i started to speak i looked into his world-worn eyes

his blue eyes sparkled, not from their natural color
but with tears forming, he said, just above a whisper,
“i’ve never been loved by someone who knew my name,
perhaps i’ve never been loved at all.”

as if from nowhere she was there
long blonde hair undoubtedly bought from an online search
her black skin glistening in the fading sun
as she clutched a wrinkled paper bag before speaking
“i’ve brought a sandwich and i hope you enjoy it,
sorry i’m late but you know how the world is.”

i watched her now, shimmering as she moved
beautiful skin and large brown eyes,
sparkling as if reflecting his tears back to him
with no other words she handed him the bag,
turned and said with a sultry voice, “enjoy your day, mister.”

intrigued, i asked, “why did she call you ‘mister’?”
“oh she doesn’t know my name.” his eyes burned through mine.
as the lonesome man bit into his sandwich i curiously asked,
“you told me your name, why not tell her?”
with another bite the old man looked up and said,

“i’ve never been loved by someone who knew my name,
perhaps i’ve never been loved at all.”

i learned that day that a man named malachi still had hope
perhaps this beautiful woman, in never knowing his name
would someday learn to love him
beyond sandwiches and smiles.

“my name,” he would proudly tell her, “is timothy.”