While sitting on a park bench reading <br />I overheard a man nearby <br />talking with his grandson. <br /> <br />The grandson asked why there were <br />so many old folks in the park every day. <br />The grandfather told him perhaps they were <br />just too alone at home to stay there. <br /> <br />Maybe they needed to be with other <br />old folks where they could share old jokes <br />or play a game of bocce ball <br />as they live in the park till dark. <br /> <br />Maybe remembering names <br />became a game to ignore their pain <br />and the daily checkers games felt sane. <br /> <br />Maybe to make time fly they antagonize <br />or criticize, sometimes even acting wise <br />till twilight comes to bring the night. <br /> <br />Then they wave goodbye, <br />and God forgives the little white lie... <br />that they look forward to tomorrow. <br />Then they go home again <br />and back into the past, alone. <br /> <br />The grandson nodded. <br />Then he asked the grampa <br />how he knew so much. <br /> <br />The grampa was quiet for awhile. <br />Then he told the boy <br />when you got to be his age, <br />there were some things <br />you just know.<br /><br />C.J. Heck<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-folks/
