246. Who is John Thompson?

"Who is John Thompson"? you once asked.
"You don't know?!" I gasp, surprised.
"He is the old man that sits on that bench -
All alone, with one eye."
"One eye?" you ask.
"Gouged one out," I reply.
"Why on earth would he do that?" you ask.
"Have you ever wondered what it's like
to be alone in this world? [nod]
I mean really alone - with no one, not one
soul, to turn to;
To see only darkness, no light;
To feel no happiness or joy, only sorrow;
To have your heart break not by someone else,
but by your own doing?
Do you?"
[You are silent.]
"Look at John Thompson; look at him.
The only way he lived was by himself,
no care in the world for anyone,
not even himself."

"Then one day, he picked up a book;
a fancy-looking one, all garnished
in gold.
Flipped to a page by chance and read.
No one knows what it said - quaint little
poem - but his face softened, his heart
softenened, he wept.
He wept and wept;
No one knew what to say.
A little girl approached him;
touched his hand.
When their eyes met, he cried out
In a whirlwind, he reached for his
eyes,
But only succeeded in gouging one out
before they stopped him -
the girl shrieked in terror."

Now look at John Thompson -
What do you see?
An old man, alone on the bench,
clutching that fancy book.
What does he have to say:
Some nights poetry is not enough.