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The Last Day
Gene stood. Skyscraper demanding. Cold steel.
Thirty-five hard years. Over now. Just like that.
Corrugated box. Family photo. Timex watch.
Bitter coffee.
Stale sweat.
He walked out. Sun blaze. Fireball. Air thick.
Sidewalk. Familiar corner. Man there.
Black skin. Weathered face. Cardboard sign.
Gene stopped. Eyes met. Silent understanding.
"Seen you," the man said.
Gene nodded. "Fifteen and a half years."
"Never spoke."
"No. Never did."
Gene sat. Concrete cracked. Chill. Hands trembling.
"Lost everything," he said, eyes downcast.
Shame heavy. Guilt girded.
The man waited. Silent. Eyes knowing.
"Wife. Cancer. Kids ghosted. Job now too."
Gene's voice cracked. "Wasted. Empty. Life."
The man reached down. Pulled out a bottle.
"Drink?" he asked.
Gene nodded. Took it. Swigged deep.
Bourbon burned. Good burn. Real.
"First honest thing. In years."
They sat. Shadows lengthened. City hummed.
Bottle passed. Back. Forth. No words.
Gene breathed. First time in years.
Bygone dreams. Flickered. Misty.
Husband. Father. Provider. Lost Purpose.
Night fell. Stars peeked. Traffic thinned.
Gene stood. Legs unsteady. Mind unclear
"Thanks," he said,
The man nodded. "Tomorrow comes" –
Gene stared out. Horizon blurred. “That was yesterday.”
Street light flickered. Old worn dress shoes.
A sound.
Empty bottle.
Spinning.
Parting gift. Timex.
Ticking...
Copyright ©
Daniel Henry Rodgers
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