Like A Taxi Cab Waiting

If I take one step forward down this path in the park the transparent man sitting on the bench down the way will walk up to me, offering his hand. He usually hops aboard his flying machine and traverses the skies at dusk, painting the night canvas with speckled stars. Always returning me promptly at nine, he bids farewell and goes in a flash. So usually, I avoid the path entirely on my morning walks.