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11/7/2016 11:51:47 AM Terry Robinson Posts: 49	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. edited by trobbo44 on 11/8/2016
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11/7/2016 3:02:37 PM Graphite Drug Posts: 81	An interesting poem with some ponderable language, "the stubborn lament for all things beyond the capture of the present." You seem to have some deep introspection observing the old man on his bench. Good read except for the stupid facebook links.
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