Two men sit on a bench, never talk, then walk away.

I sat in Washington Square Park yesterday with my sister. 
She tells me to grab her Boston hat as I fish sandwiches out of a beige tote bag.

Between bites of her gluten free bread she kicks my foot 
and nods towards some scene. 

My attentions caught first by a little boy, 12 or so, making wide airplane arms;

a little green bomber jacket transforms him into a fine young pilot,
kicking coins 
and basking in what glory can be found in the middle of an empty fountain. 

She laughs, noticing him too.
But redirects my eyesight towards something else.

Sitting down is an old man, hunched forward, 
arms rested on his knees,
the cuffs of a faded yellow rain jacket sliding down to meet tanned elbows. 

To his left is a man in a long winter coat, black, and a scarf that waves at me,
professionally,
the type of scarf with a firm handshake and a corporate smile.

I try not to pry, but instinct registers before courtesy,
and I find I’ve been tracking their interaction.

I soon realize no words have been exchanged.

Two pairs of silent lips facing away from each other, strong faces 
with an unrealized potential for conversation.

soft wind accents their thinning hair, and acts a courier, 
passing invisible notes between the two men.

Maybe they spoke in their minds, tapped out some code, 
in an unseen higher dimension.

The non-conversation is brought to a close as the young man gets up to leave.
I thought I heard him mutter some secret to the air. It was probably in my head.

They move briskly in separate directions, the purpose of the short meeting achieved,
a purpose left unknown.