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Old Man
An old man sits,
looking at the wrinkles
on the back of his hands.
When exactly did they first start carving their way into his flesh.
Did they always look this way?
He flips them over,
they are callus and coarse
broken and scabbed.
Years of making a living with these hands. Now they are almost useless,
frail and easily wounded.
These hands that held many others,
threw some punches
and waved goodbye
a few too many times.
An old man sits,
his mind as sharp as ever.
Some days he wishes it would go. Sometimes even the good memories hurt. He shuts his eyes remembering
a cool breeze and green fields.
Just a boy yet his hair was cotton white.
He sees a dalmation running to greet him.
He smiles, as a boy and an old man.
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