This is a composite of old men I have seen in the historic cities of Europe. There is a sameness to them, a dignified sadness as they hold their place.
Like an old railway clock
Stopped with no time left
But so many stories to tell
Of trains that came
Of those that didn’t
Of steam and diesel
Of freight and baggage
All that baggage left behind.
He sat on the park bench
In his rumpled suit jacket
,baggy once black trousers,
and worn but sensible shoes
As the pigeons, ever hopeful,
wandered about his feet
Hands folded on his lap
And his face, slight smile hiding in the creases
Was a story waiting to be told
A life, like a fountain in the rain,
Its beauty and purpose lost
Or seemingly so
As the world rushed by
Forgetting that the old ways
Gave form to the new.
Who would ask now
Who would listen.