The Old Man

It's hard filling the hours when unemployed and the new adventure is still in the distance. Writing is the only creative activity that keeps me from going nuts. I could just get high and watch the tube, but I'd rather not. So, I here submit a poem (not really a poem, just some dribble in the same format as a poem) that I have penned to keep me sane and away from the pipe. It is called The Old Man. It has nothing to do with travel or hostels, but what the hell.

I saw him just the other day
Driving a Ford Thunderbird
A red sixty-seven
I've seen him a lot lately
Even dreamt about him

I strolled into a diner

And there he stood
Old with white scruff on his face
He said he was sorry he left
Couldn't handle it at home
He had to get away

I said I wasn't angry

Just glad to see him
He smiled
I smiled
We said our farewells

I am angry though

Not for me
For the family
In any case, it was nice to see him

Twenty years have past

Since I saw the old man last
Laying so peaceful
Head resting on a blue satin pillow
Colorless hands placed on his chest
A golden angel pinned
On his Sundays best

She made me look
I didn't want to
I wanted to remember the man
With color and life in his face

 I am angry though

Angry for the family mostly
It's nice to dream of him
That makes the anger subside a bit