The Wino In The Park

I'd seen him on many occasions throughout the seasons, sitting on a park bench, sipping wine from a brown-paper wrapped bottle. To me it seemed the same bottle, unchanged in time and space. Occasionally one would hear a snide remark, 'Isn't he a damned disgrace? Apparently he didn't care what was said. He'd courteously nod his head and smile as if to say. 'I hope you have a better day than mine.' One morning he wasn't there, I asked his park-keeper friend, 'Where's the wino? ' His answer was succinct. 'He's dead.' 'How? ' I asked in genuine surprise. 'How? 'came a staccato reply. 'Of love he sought and didn't find.' There wasn't anything I could say. But now whilst walking through the park I try to find a different way. (Inspired by Dylan Thomas' poem 'The Hunchback in the Park')