The old man on the bench

I wonder who he use to be
Before he became just ‘the old man on the bench’
You will find him there if the park is open
Always sitting in the same spot
I wonder what once filled those empty eyes
Just trying to imagine some of the things he must of seen
What wars has he fought, both a nations and his own
Where is the rest of his life spent, is there anyone awaiting his return
Does he remember how to smile, and what caused him to
I wonder what is it that so attracts him, it brings him back time and again
The birds drawn by his neighbor do not interest him
Nor does he seem to ever search for a face in the crowd
He never seeks out the source of the children's laughter
I have even seen him ignore many people's attempt at conversation
It appears that he is simply just waiting
And this saddens me greatly
For I believe I know what it is he's waiting for