that old man
there was this really
old man
who used to come and sit in the train.
it was this really old train
old and shitty
just like the old man
he'd just sit whenever the train wasn't going anywhere
"just enjoying a bit of warmth, young folks"
he had the eyes of a street man
ears of someone who had grown with the cold
hands of someone who had missed some meals
engulfed in him was this ancient
dark overcoat
from it, every time he sat in the train
a paperback would come out of one of the multitude of pockets.
you could barely make out the book's title
for the cover was so battered
the paint had nearly
worn of
so one day i followed him
decided i'd just hop on the next train
that day he had finished the book he was reading
and so i followed him to a public library
"hello there, Mr. Thomas", the clerk said
"hello sweetheart. Any new material for this old mutt?"
"arrived just today. I already have them here for you"
"god bless you sweetheart. This does warm an aged fool"
and so he put down the two maimed
yellowed books
and put the five less stricken books
on his dark long coat
we walked three blocks
stopped at this meticulously crafted
arquitectural beauty of a mansion
could this be the damned old man's house
he walked up the cinzel stairs
and fumbling in a pocket the elder took a
battered
copper
key.
"young man, you're always on the train with such an exquisite gaze on me"
taken by surprise, my answer consisted of multiple 'huh'
"how whimsical! Is this old carcass of any interest these days?"
up to that point, i never got to notice
how sad his eyes were
how wistful his voice was
how happy and longing his smile was
"come on up, young man. Care for a warm drink?
i have a lot of good tea.
'Still, I'm missing on the coffee, bad for the heart,
you know?"
never have i seen someone so delighted
so cheerful
for a simple soul to share some time with
as soon as i stepped through the big wooden doors
i felt the cold moistened air
the emptiness of the grand atrium
the whole house was empty
lest for a barren wooden table and a small tin bed on the kitchen
"Don't be alarmed, i know it's empty and cold,
but i like it that way.
Warmth is for good places to be,
fullness is meant for sites with warm
selfless
memories."
so late i got home that day
so much i talked
such great tea i drank
that old man had once been very rich
both in capital and in soul
though mostly in heart
his money now rested on a myriad of
varied, good charities
all of them a pick of his deceased wife
his sweet, warm gabby
oh! the marvels he sung of her
the one soul who shared his once warm home
she loved to read. Sherlock's tales were her niche
the poor woman joked she only married the old man
for he had the same last name as the author, Doyle
those books were his pathway to her memory
but he couldn't bring himself to read them in his barren house
in his castle of long gone ghosts
he always went somewhere else to read them
somewhere not as cold
someplace where he would not feel sorry for himself
anyplace his eyes would not whimper and water
a month has passed since he hasn't come to the train.
a month has passed since our last ephemeral dialogue about a text
though, i am happy for the old man
he has gone to a warmer place, to meet his gabby once again
at least he doesn't have to come to this old, shitty train
maybe that was why he came
a reflection of him
his companion
i think the train too, is sad
for he has lost his companion
his long gone pal.
