The old man shuffles.
He’s worn out the floor.
His feet are flat.
His back is sore.
He shuffles to the kitchen,
Then to the back door.
No one’s ever there.
They don’t come anymore.
The hallway is empty.
The children have grown.
No yelling, or laughing.
No kites to be flown.
He turns and remembers,
All the beauty he’s known.
Oh, the years have gone quickly.
Now, he’s all alone.
To the front room he shuffles.
There, above the divan,
Is a picture of a matador.
He once was that man.
He was bright, he was brave.
He was handsome, and tan.
Now, no one knows him.
He’s his only living fan.
He shuffles to the bedroom.
He’s weary today.
He looks out the window,
Sees the trees gently sway,
Then he lays himself down.
Watches a fly buzz his way.
Ah! Another bullfight!
He can hear the music play…
CAWatson2009
