The old man sits on the park bench, 

Pushing the moth eaten scarf under his thin, barely adequate coat.

Wrapped up the best he can against the cutting winter wind,

He sits here every day for hours, not moving but lost in his thoughts.

 

Thoughts of ambition, of achievement of satisfaction that once was,

His younger self appears in his minds eye, athletic and looking so smart in his uniform,

His wife, proud and looking lovingly up at him.

 

That was so long ago, his tears now gently trace down his face,

He cries but does not weep, he is longing for his life of yesteryear 

He now just exists day to day, even hour to hour.

 

Kids run by shouting and pointing,

Cruel and unfeeling, but they don’t know who he was, and somewhere still is.

They barely register on his consciousness; he is so lost in his sad but comfortable world.

 

Then one day he does not make it to the bench,

No one notices, no one cares.

He lies motionless and cold in his pitiful bed.

At last he is again young, again athletic, again in uniform,

His young beautiful and proud wife looking longingly up at him.

 

The priest stands over the grave,

Alone, other than the necessary undertakers

His spoken words being lost in the wind,

But the final statement “noble and tragic” hung long in the air.