Poems ✍️

They sit together, back to back
at Briar Park, on a metal bench
like bookends,
cold from the icy steel
once cloaked by the warmth of oak,
that modern day greed stole away.

And they enjoy each others silence,
though every now and then-
one turns and taps the others arm,
pointing out non-sequiturs,
something perhaps for scuttlebutt
when the sun goes down
and there's nothing much
to talk about.

And the other one always nods,
as if he saw it all first hand,
then both return back to their worlds;
make no mistake, these are best friends in true,
living in their own ''Private Idaho''.

And they couldn't be more content as friends,
understanding, allaying each other's quirks,
keeping each other minds aroused,
as time and cognition has its quavering moments,
like when the breeze is too relaxing,
until the void is broken by one or the other
with another arm tap and a new tale of old to tell
the same tale they've told so many times,
and each time the details get better.

Late afternoon, says the sky to them both,
time to walk back to the home to wash-up,
Isn't it Turkey and biscuit night?
'No old man...that was Thanksgiving Day''
A wink to the other and they both have their laugh,
as they've already called out for a pizza
to be delivered to their window,
It was meatloaf night and two empty seats
at Briar Parks dining hall.

Growing old is not so bad, I guess,
so long as you're somewhat aware you are,
and have someone there to share the experience-
while it lasts...with a breeze of dignity.



©Frank James Ryan Jr./FjR
MMXVI All rights reserved