The Old Man
Sits beside his window, his red-rimed eyes
Unseeing
In his mind are sunsets and rainbows,
And shining stars in the dense cold blackness
Of space
He listens to the laughter of children, mixed
With the static roar of the engines
Of ancient warplanes,
And longs for the cool, loving caress
Of the sea
He dreams of a place where every decision
Is right,
And every game played
Is won
And the mezzo-forte of day diminishes
To the pianissimo of dusk, he wonders,
Did I do it right ?
May I play
Again ?
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