He sat alone
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Staring out his dirt-covered window,
Looking as though
He had nothing to do
But watch the seagulls soaring through the bitter autumn air
And landing on wharves to fight over morsels of fish
And bits of lunch fisherman had left behind
Before going out for their last loads.
He was probably
Remembering the good old days;
He had a half-sad, half-happy smirk on his face
As he looked out into the distance.
I sat on an old wooden crate trying to look as though I was there for a reason -
Examining him, watching him intensely through his window.
How lonely, I thought it must be
To live in this shack he used for a home.
I felt bad
For the man
Who reminded me
Of my own grandfather.
Often throughout the years
That I had lived on Fishermanís Wharf
I had seen him -
Though I never knew his name.
I hadnít ever seen him
Out of his shack.
No, he just sat there
Looking out his window.
How? I wondered, must he live -
Just sitting there;
Isolated from the world,
Gradually dying of loneliness.
I must visit him, I told myself.
Yes, try and make him happy,
Give him a friend; someone to care for him,
Love him, and respect him.
Oh, but I canít go today.
I must have a million things to do.
I canít go today,
Here, I share, with stark honesty, my life.