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The Old Man At The Nursing Home

He sat upon the crumbling steps and leaned
against a rusty rail. A withered hand
caressed a cane worn slick from use and time.
Deep furrows, like a thousand rivers, etched
his face. His eyes were hidden deep beneath
a shaggy brow. The sun was shining bright
and warm, the birth of spring was near. As I
approached, his eyes met mine, I smiled and said,
“Hello.” “Sit down and talk awhile.” Said he.
His eyes begged me to stay. He talked about
when he was young and in his natural prime,
of things he’d seen and things he’d done, how as
a lad of seventeen he’d come across
the sea. Again he’d crossed the ocean wide,
a war had beckoned him. The battle won,
once more returned, pursued his life again.
The home where folks like him reside takes land
that he once tilled. “But that was long ago,”
He said. “I’m ninety two come may. I’ve had
my day and it was good, I’m glad you came
my way.” I stood and said that I must go.
A knotty hand encircled mine. He said
to me, “Come back again whenever you
have time.” I never saw the man again,
I never thought I would. I think about
him now and then. I sometmes wish I could.

Ron Flowers 1995

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