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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required There sat an old man on the porch. He was long and gray. Skin that looked similar to a dried raisin. Dark as a wet pecan. His eyes a light green color. You know his dad was one of those Creoles. How did his skin get so dark? Working out there in that field for that white man, they say. Worked there so long his back and knees gave out one day while he was tilling the land. He sat still on the wooden chair in the shade of the sloping roof of his shack. His wavy gray hair wet with sweat around the sides of his head and on his bony chest. He had lost the interest in keeping it groomed so the waves had lost their shiny luster. The wrinkles pooled around his eyes and sunk in his cheeks. They told him that he had gotten that from his grandmama's white side because his negro grandmama on his daddy's side died at the age of 80 without a wrinkle. He had always resented his white side and the more he loathed them the heavier his heart became. The heavier his heart became the deeper the wrinkles became. So this hatred was the cycle of his life. His large hands spread out dangling at his side. Not swinging, just dangling as if they had steel poles in them. They looked so heavy attached to his little arms. The veins shown blue through his wrists at the base of his hands. More privileges and favor with his father's people because of that. He wore no shirt. Only khaki slacks that looked as old as he did. He wore no shoes so his long feet rested on the creaky boards of the porch. He sat with his eyes staring out at nothing. The children played in the yard. Screaming and running around with laughter. Their mothers just across the street talking and gossiping about the young women at the street corner. Envy in their voices as they discussed and threw out their opinions. The men gathered around the mailbox tossing and dice and yelling out profanity to each other. Everyone going about their daily lives. The old man still sat motionless as a painting. Look closely. His chest is not moving. There is no breath blowing out of his nose. He had become a corpse right where he sat. And so we see the cycle of life. Laughter. Gossip. Lust. Envy. Innocence. Play. Youth. Sin. Life. And death.
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