I Am the Old Man on the Porch, Watching the Quiet World

I am the old man on the porch, watching the quiet world,

Content to be as some imagine me--those who look as they pass

And wonder how I came to be here. They never ask. 

Suburban Buddha, sipping sweet tea, the cat curled

Beside me, the paper beside her, headlines hurled

By the newsboy on the bicycle this morning, as fast

As I am still. Ignore that jealous tick behind my mask. 

I once rode quickly, too; a stitch of memory, now purled. 

Her minivan arrives, parks parallel,

She alights with the smile of 45 years;

It may be she really is happy.

She approaches, asks if I'm well. 

She won't understand simply sitting here,

Busy at nothing, sometimes exhausts me.


—Martin A. Bartels