Fresh Paint

A man on a park bench feeds all the birds
Listens to laughing and 'fun-having' kids

His eyes unaware of the tears in his furrows
His eyebrows all bushy they block the bright sun
Remembrance of when he needed no walker
A nod to the youth that spins on the swing
His lips tremble lightly with head tilted sideways
His shoulders they sag from the weight of the world

Sore feet in brown boots with unmatching laces
Throb from the pain also felt in his hips

A fine classy lady sits gently at one side
Whispers and talks with polite elegance
With respect he looks deep into her spirit-like eyes
And talks with her gladly as soul inside cries
All alone in this world with old stained tweed jacket
She visits him often and converses all day

The laughter of kids is warm and so heartfelt
He misses his family and so names the birds

Hours pass quickly the days are a blur now
The children all laugh as he talks to himself
He fondly remembers his own spinning swing
And forgives the children as pigeons are fed
A day not too far now the birds they go hungry
And must learn to fend and to feed for themselves

No longer a walker sits next to the park bench
An elegant spirit no longer says hi
The laughter keeps on but echoes to no ear
Even swing spinning no longer seems fun

The child sits lonely on motionless swing set
Unaware of the tear which seeps from his eye
johnreedclark 2/2/05