Crossing Guard on Sundays

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Gray headed, well dressed,
Deep and scarred with years
Of wear, The man sits.
He sits on a wooden chair,
Tie-dyed with pigeon gifts,
Jeans hanging with his skin,
Like it takes too much effort
Just to cling to the bone.
He sits there watching the others,
The chess players, the daily walkers,
The wheel chair riders and their
Pushers.
I watch him look,
And watch him see,
The wheels going round on
The wheel chair, no, years
Going round on a massive clock,
The trees waving in the breeze,
Are the hands ticking, slowly slowing down,
On that clock
Street vendors yelling out the time,
Yet, the man ignores its call,
And stretches and rubs the small
Mole on the side of his face,
Smiling at the kids he always sees
Ignorance or wisdom?
Either way, he doesn’t hear the clock,
Ticking away the years,
Instead he hears the lively beat,
That gets him around the clock
At least one more time.





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