Watching, Waiting
He strains to push his aged self
out of the deep old chair.
The wooden cane is planted on
the rose-cabbage carpet bare.
His spotted and veined hand
upon the speckled arm
grabs hold to heave his body up
then makes the dust mites swarm.
Little bits of feathered stuff,
stick to his trouser pants,
while the dust and all the unseen things,
do their airy dance.
His clear blue eyes are watching,
the clock upon the wall.
Waiting for the ray of sun,
to warm his old cold stall.
In the middle of the rug,
the sun shines on the floor,
He teeters here and totters there
then tries to walk some more.
He passes by the table,
where a tintype rests askew,
His heads bows as in prayer
for the soldier he once knew.
His wife and son have gone beyond,
his eyes they fill with dew.
The little old man he shuffles,
his target is the glass,
The window is his daily view,
where he watches the world pass.
*****
By CeeCee
© 2008 CeeCee
(All rights reserved)
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