Waiting
He sits upon the village bench
handing out smiles to life as it passes
by, occasionally resting his smile upon
his walking stick.
His eyes, watered down with age
and weathered with stories,
offer a simple truth to life;
the stubborn lament for all things
beyond the capture of the present.
His day on the bench begins at nine
and finishes at four. That's a lot of smiles
to scatter, weather permitting,
and feel good in the doing.
Satisfied with his day's quota he stands,
takes off his smile, and leans his hand on his
walking stick. Homeward bound he plots
his course, becoming just a passerby.
A green door, much like any other, holds
the lock to his key and the changing
heartbeat to his day. No cat, no dog,
no smiles returned.
Gone are the returned waves and precious
smiles, no more 'How are you's?' and 'Have
a nice day'. What remains of the day is
cheese on toast with a cup of tea.
Followed by a lonely night in a bed that's
ready for the scrap heap. All the while
he waits for the dawn light to break.
Waits for the future to surround
the present once more.
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