The old man.
The old man
The old man coughed and paused
The flu he’d caught and kept him company
Was going nowhere, nor was he
Except perhaps to the undertaker.
He felt no pity for he had lived
Beyond his siblings and his kin
Now turned eighty he had regrets
But really very few.
His awkward walk caused no comment
His daily round invisible
To daily Mass and tiny shops
Who knew him through and through.
He’d sacked the doctor some years back
Too many ailments, too much bad news
He’d rather live his last few years
At home in total ignorance.
Besides he had no wife to trouble him
Separated, yes his best decision
To set her free last fifty years
Abroad, remarried, with grandkids.
He felt no malice to the world
No shame at serving as a soldier
With millions others in the army
That moves each year from life to death.
The undertaker was paid up
A plot was purchased near his brother
No man could ever say
He didn’t pay his way.
And so one day the Mass is one man shy
The grocer isn’t sure and asks
To find his customer’s at peace
He’d died serenely in his sleep.
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