Time it was …
Sat on their park bench like bookends
A newspaper blown through the grass
Falls on the round toes
Of the high shoes of the old friends
I loved to sit in the park and watch the old men play chess. I would study their faces, faces looking like nature had taken a pallet knife to well-worn leather.
It was foreign to me, a skinny kid with no past to speak of yet. Sometimes they would take a break and sit with me, tell me stories of great adventures, of greater tragedy. Tell me of their courageous voyages across oceans or of their losses, a wife gone, a child taken too soon.
An old man once told me that we come to a time in our life when we look back more often than we look forward. When time becomes short and the future is no longer…
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