Sitting in his chair on the walk,
day after day
he’s seen many days, years, decades.
Teeth like an old halloween pumpkin
or a half eaten ear of corn
but with a smile just as large.
Looking, looking, but seeing?
Sitting, sitting, all day every day.
Does not walk, right hand lame
but the left always warm,
limber like a man of twenty.
Slow to speak but always kind,
never an angry word
though alone on a busy street in the barrio.
¿Papá, quieres un vaso con aqua?
¿Y tu amigo, el señor?
Aging, but not old,
mi amigo, my hero.
© Original Bob
15 February 2018
NB : This is one of two poems (the other is Becoming) I wrote as a challenge by my friend Isaac to describe how, in terms of years, people can grow older without aging, how it is possible to die younger than at birth.