Monday, May 08, 2006

Post 18: 080506 Poem

The Old Man With a Rag in His Hand

I watched him as he followed me
With his eyes and said strange things
At odd intervals. We walked together
Briefly before he choose to duck
Inside. He said the day was too nice
With its sun and cool breeze. He was
Used to shadows and damp smells and
Kept tugging at his collar until the beads
Of sweat on his forehead had disappeared.
We sat for a long time on make-shift chairs
Listening to water dripping from the faucet
In the next room while he periodically
Pulled a rag from the folds of his well
Pressed slacks. His eyes were transfixed
On my feet until a pair of peach coloured
Hares startled us when they emerged
From a gap in the tiled floor. Their ears
Were pinned back, their coats were well
Groomed and their out of place appearance
Lasted no more than a minute as they
Validated their surroundings and hopped
Out the way we came in. The old man
Extracted his rag and wiped the tears
That had welled in his eyes.

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