The Fallen Man

PROSE POETRY from D.E. BENTLEY

The Fallen Man

“Turn around!”

“What?”

“Turn around. He’s fallen down.”

As passenger, I internalize the panes; traverse passing frames, 

unravel images retraced—replaced 

by time.

Buffalo snow,

an unplowed drive,

21 degrees

on the cusp of 2021.

A second’s glance.

A second chance.

Perhaps.

Another passer-by who hadn’t seen would not have known. 

He was there, concealed—still—in that white blanket chill. 

“I’m your guardian angel,” I said; influenced, perhaps, by a recent viewing of 

It’s a wonderful Life. He looked up, saw me hovering above.

“The letters?”

Adrift in an ocean of white.

“Here.”

I had retrieved these first, shook off the snow,

tucked them into my pocket for safekeeping.

I retrieved, then, his cane—knee deep to his right

—and placed it in his hand.

I thought of bitter cold not broken bones 

as I brought him to his feet.

He steadied himself on his cane and made his way

inside.

Three steps up—illuminated by the light

—he offered blessings.

We flagged his letters in the box 

at the end of the drive.

We drove away.

Our next hours spent:

watching youth sled down a snowy slope in the wintry cold; 

then, in a warm apartment—listening to Music Choice’s Singers & Swingers 

with a ninety-three to ninety-four-year-old 

(depending on who you ask). 

The music took us back. 

He was already there.

“Don’t forget this generation,” he said—at the end of the long hallway— 

as we bid farewell.

We stepped outside. Snow shifted and swirled and settled on the pavement.

I reached into my pocket for warmth and found, instead, the feather.

It had touched down, soft—a seemingly endless ethereal descent

—on that snowy drive. 

I don’t believe in angels, 

only fate. 

He said he was okay, 

the fallen man.

I believe he was.