THE OLD MAN IN THE RAIN –’99
Will Ritter
The old man sits and pulls close his trench.
He leans his umbrella on the edge of the bench.
It seems colder today than it did last December,
But still a good day to just sit and remember.
His hair is long gone, he’s got wrinkles instead.
Now a droplet of rain hits his frail, withered head.
But he simply smiles, and winks to the skies
Like a friend to a friend, through his twinkling eyes.
The park quickly clears of young children and pets,
And other such sorts who don’t like to be wet.
But the man on the bench, with his wrinkled old clothes
Still smiles at something that only he knows.
The pitiful, pitter-pat tapping of water
Slowly builds till it’s sloshing and rushing the gutter.
Though he’d walked quite unsteadily to get to his seat
The old man now rises powerfully to his feet.
He lifts the umbrella, but pulls not at the snap,
Simply twirls it around for a bit, by the strap.
He finally leaves it to rest on his arm,
The rain drizzling down, but doing no harm.
Sometimes when the rains come, every now and then
The old man will step out and become young again
The rain stops and he lets out a satisfied sigh
For another productive day’s downpour gone by.
______________________
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