I have to wonder about the man.
When I tell you about him, you’ll wonder too.
Wonder about a very old man who spends afternoons in
the library. But why? The man is so old. Even I am here
less for the books and more for the chance of getting laid. Like college
boys. Like most college boys. Like every single single person at a bar. And now I’m just assuming. It’s animalistic. It would be a lie if I said I loved books more than men. I love my fellow man. And what he can do for me.
The man is so old I expect to see his caregiver trailing him. Helping him up and down. I immediately fall in love with the man of course. I try to make eye contact and smile but he is ignoring me. Playing hard-to-get. Disinterseted. I rarely know which is which.
The man is so old I know I can finish this poem no problem before he goes. The rate at which he moves across the room. Earlier in the morning, I saw a lady so old as well and while passing her on the sidewalk I slowed down so she wouldn’t get whiplash or feel bad. He is so old that even now I am afraid my sudden movements might scare him and send him home. He reads a magazine. Last I looked he was literally reading a crossword puzzle. No pen in hand. Can he even see? As he turned the page I saw a big ad for Walt Disney World.
He wears a knap-sack crossed over his chest (which I imagine has boy snacks in it) and a bright blue and orange knit winter hat. He wears a gray, lined wind breaker and dark blue jeans, the soft kind, and I do not make this shit up. I keep stealing glances but again, I don’t want to scare the dying man away so I’m not gonna look, I’m just gonna guess:
dark gray Velcro shoes.
For all I know, I’m dying at a quicker rate than the man.
I wonder if he can hear the scrape of my pen on paper.
It is loud.
I wonder if it scares him.
I am guessing he is a man and he can take it.
But sometimes men are such delicate things.
Like the men who break and shoot.
His shoes are hiding behind the table with his feet.
He has a red face and is reading People.
He should be remembered for more than that.
But again, who said he was dying?
Someone in the library screams out in pain.
Everybody hears it and looks but him.
MAMA BIRD 
Well done again, Terah. As I read this, I could not help thinking about my, late, great-aunt. She passed away two years ago at 101 years young. She was a pistol right up to the end. She outlived three husbands and one daughter. Someone can look frail but none of us would have been a match for her!
Hi Lea~
Thank you for your thoughtful reply. I don’t know about this guy–but some people (like your great-aunt) have too much life to die. Plain and simple.
I’m not sure I’m one of those people. But I love when I meet one. Mind over matter, truly.
She sounds like a character who deserves to be written about!
I love this. I now search the streets for the man, he is so real, he is real. And I scan the library for someone that has a wandering eye, a restless soul, a primal urge.
Happy you appreciate it, thanks.
Can’t say I haven’t been to the library with the same intentions. Or at least hope.
I really love this piece. Such perception. Interesting thoughts and tangents. I think my favorite line is “Like the men who break and shoot.” I don’t know what it means, yet at the same time I KNOW what it means. That’s poetry.
You’re like, what? 23? and you can do this? Keep going girl, you’ve got good things ahead of you.
PS: I’d be honored to create some art for your blog.
Dallion!
You’ve said a lot of kind things here, thank you. I will definitely contact you about a header for my blog in the upcoming months. I was worried you didn’t want to do it! But now that you do, thank you thank you thank you, I’m pumped!
Talk to you later!