Cold Pavement

I saw this evening
in my driveway
an oldish man
hefting a garbage can
out to the curb.

He wore a natural wool
cable-knit sweater
khakis, tan socks and slippers.

Even though it was
the first day of false spring,
the sky was dark
the air was nippy, cold.

“Stop,” I wanted to tell him;
“Hold off!” But I could not.

There was an authority to
the way he hefted first the can
then the recycle bin
that spoke of the dignity of work
nobility of achievement.

I saw glory streaming around his head
I saw victory
I saw a man living life
in a way that suited the moment
very well.

Besides, if I’d started yelling
“Stop!” out in the driveway
by myself, carrying my garbage can,
people would have thought
I was old
and crazy.

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About riverwriter

Poet, playwright, duplicate bridge player, website designer, cottager, husband, father, grandfather, former athlete, carpenter, computer helper for my friends, theatre designer, backstage polymath, retired teacher of highschool English, drama, art, a baritone singer in a barbershop quartet, who knows what else? wordcurrents is on Facebook: Doug also has a Facebook page, "Incognitio", related to his novels.
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