The Old Man stands,
Hunched and waiting.
By the old bus shelter of His youth,
Memories of cavorting,
Dancing in the rain with the
endless stream of Lady friends.
Never a wife. Oh no.
That would not be practical.
Yet here He stands,
Tired and alone.
Bitter winds howl at His feet,
Fluttering through the pale strands,
Of hair gripped to His head and
they cling with fervent fingers.
"Damned weather", He mutters.
Pulls His coat closer to him.
And as He stands,
Angry and shivering.
The bus staggers around the corner,
Wheezing as it comes,
The doors hiss a weary welcome
The Old Man climbs aboard.
Muttering heartless salutations.
Where to? He considers, slowly...
Switzerland. Me thinks.
