Time

The man sits in his doorway
Grey, old, alone;
But not wretched.
Picking his teeth with a neem stick
He watches;
Children scream, run, play
The air full of dust/sand
Rising in the throes of joy;
He could feel it
In his eyes, hair, mouth.
Yet he does not move.
He sits and he watches.
His eyes - alert
Now glaze over.
He's assaulted by memories
Almost visions
Of the exact same scene
In a different time.
He could feel what they felt;
Freedom and tyranny
Of reality/adults
And yet
Bliss.
The dust, sand, dirt
A spa for his soul;
Calm and soothing.
Yet violent with need.


Something I wrote a while ago... Was just reading it again....