Poetry

He'd sit on that quiet cold
concrete chair
In the playful park,
Would leave when the last child
left,
Sipped constantly from the bottle
in his pocket,
And watched the children play,
Never spoke a word with them.
 
When he left it was to warm his
lonely bed,
Sleep was hard to come as he felt
the emptiness,
Empty house, empty bed, empty
life,  
But he'd become a part of their
games,
He smiled as they laughed,
Frowned as they squabbled.
Then one day they played to an
empty chair,
They waited for eternity for his
return.