Old Poem:

Old Man

An old man in a cardigan on the corner of the street
between the dull concrete walls with a wooden plank for his seat
rests his gnarled fingers on worn book lying on his lap
his bright brown eyes searching anxiously from underneath his cap
for a friendly smile in the crowd of dismal grey faces
rushing by on their way to their dismal grey places
“I have many stories to share,” he whispers to the cold faces above,
“stories from my youth until now, stories of happiness and love,”
he pauses, “I was a fisherman once, a lived by the sea
with my young wife and children, in a poor community.
My brothers and I — we owned a sleek wooden boat
Oh! She’d rather fly through the sea than bother to float
We would row the craft out into the deep emerald ocean
and fling our nets over the waters with one soaring motion
then we would sing and tell stories to enrich the short day
or sometimes we’d be silent and listen to the ocean spray,”
His eyes focus on the dusty service of the old album
and his ancient fingers tap ardently in a rhythmic drum,
“there would be enough fish for our families — for them to eat
and with the leftovers we could buy whatever we might need.
Oh — and my young family, what fine stories I have to share,”
the old man opens the book and points, “see that? We once lived there.
This small yellow shack, beside the blue one, under that palm tree,
see, that’s my wife, those are my sons, and my daughters on my knee
my sons and I would play cricket on the beach until sundown
and some days I’d go to the market with my daughter, in town
I’d buy her a bracelet, some milk chocolate, or a book
and we’d bring home some rice and chicken for my wife to cook.”
The old man carefully closes the album and folds his hands
smiling and lifting his eyes to catch a passerby’s glance.
But their faces are stone and their faces are the same,
so they don’t even bother to ask him his name.