old simon
he hides beneath the brim
of an old straw hat with many years
of service pressing down to shade
eyes of unknown hue
so long have they been
in exile from the sun.
a service smile sat
uncomfortably on his lips
as if not used to such
a fortnight position
unpracticed, almost forgotten.
not stretched to the corners
of his eyes, left dangling
like a once had friend.
his voice was rationed
into short useful phrases
beneath the words ran,
“ get this over with.”
“Get me out of the glare”.
attention seeped over the hermit
like treacle. threatening to suffocate
his very existence.
a man ever alone
lost to human discourse
niceties, polite societies filled
with mendacity. alarms clangored
in his mind but to late, he was surrounded
by the curious and rude; their children
poking, touching his gear.
everything screamed run
and he did.
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