Sitting in his chair on the walk, day after day he’s seen many days, years, decades. Teeth like an old halloween pumpkin or a half eaten ear of corn but with a smile just as large. Looking, looking, but seeing? Sitting, sitting, all day every day. Does not walk, right hand lame but the left always warm, limber like a man of twenty. Slow to speak but always kind, never an angry word though alone on a busy street in the barrio. ¿Papá, quieres un vaso con aqua? ¿Y tu amigo, el señor? Aging, but not old, mi amigo, my hero.
15 February 2018
Revised: 10 July 2019
NB : This is one of two poems (the other is Becoming) I wrote as a challenge by my friend Isaac to describe how, in terms of years, people can grow older without aging, how it is possible to die younger than at birth.