The dirty old man
Dirty old paper bag sits heavily
On the wooden bench.
Speech slurred,
Gestures wild not bold,
As he sips a bottle that seals defeat.
Autumn winds begin their cruel bite,
Still he remains,
Like a statue or some
Monument to times gone by, passed one night,
Never to return who thought they had won.
Time is cruel.
Once a wife, two children.
All taken.
An empty bottle stands of that life.
YOU ARE READING
Dirty Old Man
PoetryA story in poem form. The man who had everything has lost it all, but how? Is the story the same from the other side?
