The old man sits in the park,
Draped in a plaid jacket and coal-dyed slacks
With an acrylic scarf nestled around his neck
His hair, like strings of pale nylon,
Blends in with the flakes of snow; a pair of
Glasses perched near the tip of his nose
It must be February
Frost on my window,
Stiff bare trees, and the
Old man’s puffs of fog suggest so
The bouquet he grips, comprised of yellow lilies, purple
Orchids, blue scarlet and burgundy rose
Glows like an iridescent sunset,
Waiting to be adored by someone close
His eyes shift, left and right, as if expecting company
But half an hour slips by, and his
Chapped lips droop, weighing down his doughy cheeks,
As the park is still vacant, caked in winter powder
Nearby, lampposts kindle bright, like a string of
Fireflies, birthing light into the evening sky
I shut the blinds and prepare for bed
But the old man sits quiescent, waiting in the park
Matt Esteves Hemmerich is an undergrad from SFSU with an emphasis in scriptwriting. His work has appeared in Berkeley Poetry Review, Vanitas, Emerge Literary Journal, Apropos Literary Journal, and Atlas Poetica.
Semper aliquid novum ex Eunoia. Again!
M