One Man's Retirement
In Oxford we watched for three months
the old man, his leg in plaster,
lean against the wall outside the building
where the Simon people cared for him.
He always gave a friendly greeting,
with his Irish accent, putting some life
back into our tired bodies,
as we rushed by on our way to work.
His younger mates preferred
the benches further down the street,
where they drank the bottle of cider,
hidden away from the night before.
Later in the day, senile old ladies
gathered on benches and listened
to the lilting of his Irish brogue.
Copyright © Mary Guckian | Year Posted 2015
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment