I catch a glimpse of him,
getting his mail...or perhaps not.
Sometimes he waves, but more often...
he seems to have forgotten why
he's made the descent from his porch.
A once stentorian voice...now a wave,
from a man who remembers
the services for his wife...and yet wonders,
if she'll serve him shortbread,
with this afternoon's tea.
Not even fallow anymore...once a farm...
now a testament...a landmark.
I hear his television, as shadows lengthen.
His house is dark by sundown.
I wonder if he dreams of his garden...
or perhaps of a loving wife...
a cup of tea.
Maybe he dreams of what it was like
to be young enough to remember.
