The man who sold spices

Long ago I knew a man,
Who used to sell mace, cumin and cinnamon;
Black glasses he would wear,
May be, had no vision.



He always had a smile-
Made me think a while.
When talking to him,
My ideas seemed so fragile.


I can still visualize,
His tattered bag, his dim profile.
I ll never forget the smell of his spices,
And how he never cared for the prices.


He used a walking stick,
And joked about how when young, he was a prick.
His stories were rich,
But he would never preach.


So good it was
To have him around.
Such a man,
I never again found.