Saturday, August 11, 2007


He sits on the path on an old wooden stool,
The same as the ones that he sat on in school,
And everyone passing him thinks he’s a fool,
But he knows in his heart he is not.

His hair is unkempt and his beard is greying,
The cord wrapped around his oul’ ganzy is fraying,
Yet the smile on his face is forever conveying
The fact that he cares not a jot.

He presses the button, the lights turn to red,
And both of the long lines of traffic stop dead.
But he doesn’t cross, he just sits there instead
With a faraway look in his eyes.

And all of the drivers of Fords and Toyotas
Look at their watches and rev up their motors,
And talk of the rights of the tax-paying voters –
That fool should be cut down to size.

The roar of the engines is quite seismographic
The gestures are wild and the language is graphic,
Internal combustion in stationary traffic,
But lacking the strength to explode.

Minute by minute and hour after hour,
He presses that button to show off his power,
Yet sits as serene as an orchid in flower
On a stool by the side of the road.

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