AT A LONY STREET

At The Lone Street

He ever sat by the side of a deserted street;
Probably watching the dance of hasty feet;
His old face ever painted with a cold stare;
And apparently no one even stooped to care.

The eyes ever staring in the distance;
Seemingly absorbed in the instance;
Black and grey hairs hung on his chin;
And his face indeed a stranger to grin.

In front swinged the hips of hasty ladies;
Whispered the voices of bypassing buddies;
Beside him was his old tool of trade;
The only weapon that his living made.

Behind was the trunk of a gigantic bluegum;
The place where his lone form ever clamp;
When he took his lunch none seemed to care;
Everyone had more weightier matters to bear.

I never saw anyone stand on his weighing scale;
Probably I was ever absent when he made his sale;
Standing to know your weight was only a cheap coin;
But no one seemed to have the pain.

He seemed careless of the lash of the cruel sun;
Ever willingly let it's fierce rays his old face burn;
To wave or smile at him I spared not a little chance;
Probably I swayed to the tune of the common dance.

Everyone was too busy to make their future bright;
That none cared to know of this old man's plight;
And who could bent his vibrant youthful form;
To graciously fan an old deserted heart warm?

And I know many sit at more lone dark corners;
To gladden their hearts no one having the honors;
Who knows the pain that lashes their hearts;
As their lonely faces linger beneath their old hats?

@Brian©