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"Old Man On Page"
(Part I - The Prose)
In the median he stood
the morning hour was early.
A bag of groceries he carried
and a wrinkled suit he wore.
Age had worn rivers across his face;
yet a smile was in his eyes
or was it a tear?
For he was alone; too often alone.
If he had been tall the years
now bent him like a willow.
Young girls had once been draw to him.
He had married, but she was gone now.
There were children and grandchildren.
They seldom visited.
The did not write.
He looked alone; too often alone.
Coffee at 'the Golden Arches' helped pass the time.
He could watch people - it was company.
Then he would stop for groceries
and make his way home
there to spend his endless day
with Oprah or reruns of 'General Hospital'.
A wrong number was welcomed
for he was alone; too often alone.
Only in America
does one so ripe with years
slip easily into oblivion.
Forgotten, the aged rot behind walls
of concrete, brick and plaster.
Their youth so far behind them;
families gone away.
They're alone; too often alone.
(Part II - The Poetry)
Shabby yet well groomed he stood
amidst the rush hours maddening pace.
A plastic bag from Schnucks he held;
A quiet smile upon his face.
Was it early morning coffe at
the 'arches' near the light
or a stroll down can-filled aisles that
brought his listless heart delight?
Or memories of a time now gone
that smoothed the wrinkles from his face.
A fleeting repast of her yet with him
when they were young and full of grace.
The sun sets swiftly now upon him
for the years have taken toll.
All his dreams so far behind now.
Gone the days once filled with goals.
Time now spent is long and loathsome;
a burden which he no longer fights;
thus, he rises to the madness
with no defense against his plight.