On a bench in the park sits an aged man
Looking wise; traveled; no more than fifty
Wearing a blue and white shirt with pants tan
Looking of experience and weary
Clearly he’s led a long life. Where’s he been?
What stories can he tell? Is he alone?
Does he have friends? What wonders has he seen?
And where is he going? Has he a home?
He looks up to the sky, his eyes seeking
But the evening looms: Soon it will be dark
He ascends from the bench with joints creaking
Leaning on his cane he departs the park
With a stride purposeful and colossal
He heads across the street to a brothel
22nd September 2014
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