by Eric Y. Theriault

On the bench,
Awaiting the bus.
Too much time to think,
And too old to be of use.
Noone comes to visit,
And I don't want to be a bother.

In a restaurant,
Reading the menu.
Everyone else is together,
And seems to ignore my existance.
Pondering about my entire life,
And missing my deceased wife.

Wandering the streets,
Hoping someone will speak.
But I am only an old man,
And only a joke to a lad,
Who's the same age as my grandchild,
Who's father might call tomarrow,
If only he remembers,
That it is Father's Day.