The park,
an oasis of green calm
threatened by a desert
of office towers,
was the place,
favoured
by the avatars
of the fiscal god Chaos,
for a quick lunch
and smoke.
Precisely
at one-o-five
he would shamble
to his special bench,
across from the
pigeon toilet
that resembled
Robbie Burns,
and sorted contents
of the green bin
into three piles:
lunch,
refundable cans or bottles,
and unusables.
He shared
his recycled,
second-hand lunch
with pigeons, sparrows, squirrels,
and the odd curious seagull.
His guests were
frequently frightened away
by the strength and violence
of his repeated cough,
as his advanced infection
brought this urban
Saint Francis of Assisi
daily closer
to his lonely martyrdom.
His reinforced aluminum
sturdy-grip cane
timidly precedes him,
its three legs
reminiscent
of a baby Triffid,
uncertain
in an alien
environment.
The twice-weekly visit
of a harried
social worker
barely scratches
the surface
of his age-imposed
needs:
his clothes are dirtier,
diet less varied,
body weaker,
sight dimmer,
mind more forgetful
than a few short
months ago.
Puzzled,
at the foot of the steps,
he has already
forgotten
his destination:
his Triffid
slowly
leads him
into the traffic.
The stiffness of the morning
will s l o w l y
work its way
out of tired joints.
Bland breakfasts
ensure
regularity,
a welcomed monotony.
Well-planned days
permit
no dismal contemplation
of tomorrow.
We are Yesterday’s children,
remembering too well,
the heat and the passion,
the beauty that was ours.
Hearing echoes
of past glories,
we sojourn here today,
until,
like dreams
and memories,
we gently
fade
away.
You often
almost see them
from the corner
of your eye.
You sense
a wisp of grey,
a floating,
ethereal
movement
that suddenly
d i s s o l v e s.
They drift
quietly,
gently,
on the edge
of our consciousness:
these pale,
these grey,
these haunting
people,
whom all,
but Time,
have forgotten.
If we chance
to pause,
to peer beyond
the drifting veil,
we see,
within the shroud,
a preview of ourselves
tomorrow.
