Twisted


He was a twisted old man
—much older than his age;
parts of him looking east 
while other parts looked west,
incapable of getting around
without the help of others;
only one good hand 
to hold his spoon
— or his cigarette.

He had a choice each day, 
to look at one set of four walls or another,
rarely seeing out of doors, 
except through the slightly bluish tint
of window glass,
and watch as people passing by
took for granted
 what he would never do again
— walk down the street.

One would think his days
would be filled with sorrow
for the wizened creature he’d become
yet every time I saw him
his eyes always held a spark
and a smile lit up his face.

For him, it was always 
a good day to be alive
something I believe 
a lesser man would never 
understand.




february 2005
©Janet Reid





Awarded by New Horizons