He was sitting there on that old park bench, rusted and ancient — throwing stale bits of bread for the pigeons that hovered around him. In my head, I could picture it in black and white. He whispers his mind, this lonely man, with a beard so ragged and shaggy, brought to his knees by the weight of the world. He ponders the decades, his many years of strife, and his heart grows weary in his chest, this lonely man. His stare is dead, one eye wonky, there is no smile. I heard his faint, smoke-induced voice reminiscing with those grey birds, rats of the sky, after coughing up a bit of lung. He falls to the floor to escape his slight existence and eats from the earth, he whispers to his feathered rat, that lonely man. That lonely man, not so alone, his dry skin; he is a sack of bones, his friends there, they coo with him, his mate, until that lonely man, not so alone, remembers his fate.
Paul J. Guest is a playwright and poet @pauljguest.