it is a drear evening

a barren table

would-be sculpting in the varnish

drifting lights

sinking through an open window

 

my son is leaving

 

i sit and watch the fire

as embers

turn to ash

are seen no more

 

soon we’ll say farewell

 

i remember how when young

he’d run and jump on me

i’d hug him

kiss him

treat him like a king

as any loving father would his son

 

but times

as kings

are passing

these alone i saw

 

i know i’ll miss him

 

from the dying fire

my weary eyes

wander to the window

 

there

i see an old man

walking through the park

 

he walks in silence

and alone

slowly

slightly hunched

 

though i know not

who he is

i feel i should

 

i stare

for quite some time

at his familiar gait

 

and wonder

who would walk

so slowly

and alone

 

and then

as he comes near

i see his face

 

my own

 

 

Charles Schlee, You Come Too.  © 2007, 2019.