The Park

The Park

Along the paths of cobblestones,
bedecked with black iron fences,
Ancient ones sit on wooden thrones,
Shields of newspaper as defenses.

Long pauses between few words,
they find comfort in a bag of treats.
Feeding scurrying squirrels and birds,
that congregate by their tired feet.

Perhaps a walk among the green,
but hurting bones make it hard to try.
Feeling like they're in a time machine,
as the world keeps passing them by.

So they sit as aging queen or king,
while runners-by don't even look.
Holding talismans they always bring,
In a leather wallet or pocketbook.

Perhaps one will break the spell,
Maybe today will be the day,
So they no longer have to dwell,
on the fading events of yesterday.

A little child whose antics spark,
a trembling and hoarse chuckle,
A scruffy dog with a yippy bark,
to lick the ancient one's knuckle.

Yes, today could be the day.
So they stay till it's almost dark.
Hoping somewhere along the way,
to meet a new friend in the park.

by: Kimarie Manhart-Freeman