When I wrote this poem, it never had occurred to me that I would survive my beautiful wife. I have lived my life so as to avoid the sad end of this gentleman. In her honor, I will continue living. If you see yourself or someone you know or someone you love in this poem, do your best to help them to engage in life and living. It will honor them and those who preceded them.
Old Man.
He slowly pattered to the chair,
cloth rubbed raw and chafing,
slippers worn and in their place,
pipe and ashtray next to the lighter
his wife had given him on Memorial Day.
His body bent forward
and his gaze fell on the carpet,
threadbare from walking and pacing
during illness and crisis.
He was alone now,
Slowly dying
and living slowly.
He watched the flickering television
looking for meaning,
and not looking at all.
Did he remember the President
and the year?
Or did he remember a kiss in 1947...
or was it ‘48?
He felt a tightening in his chest
and knew his end was coming.
He closed his eyes
and remembered the past
thought about the future
and prayed to whatever God
was up there.
When he died,
They removed the body,
boxed his belongings,
threw them in the trash,
emptied his bank accounts
and went on living.
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