Old

the porch creaks
and rattles – old
sad, like his eyes
aching, like his bones
and the watch on his wrist
used to gleam
is now dull – ticking slower
(“too fast,” he says, “it goes too fast”)
and loneliness rises from him
as the hazy gray line rises and curls
from the corner of his mouth
and the air smells contaminated
by stale smoke, by cigarettes baking in the sun
reminiscent of days, mistakes past
and it is fading (or is it he?)
so he sleeps
because he waited
and they never came –