The Man in the Street

More often than not,
he’d stay home;
cook for her,
feed her...wash her...
cut her fingernails,
when she’d let him.

Read to her,
clean for her,
put fresh linen
on her bed,
comb and brush
her hair, but sometimes

he’d get on a bus...
to simply talk
to whoever would listen.
Longing, as he did,
for conversation
he never
got from her.

Buy himself a treat;
a pack of tobacco.
Grab a coffee
in the square – watch
the passers by...

Light his pipe, blow
smoke rings in the air,
then tap it out
on the arm of his chair...

watch the ash
fall
to the ground
midst a cacophony
of pigeons -

like bits
and pieces
of the rest
of his life.

Stroll through the park
as night fell...
elbow the stars
with somebody,
or other – did Dad.