The old man sitting
How he sits on that stool
On the edge of that slim slab of cement by the road
Every day as it corrodes
The fray of sunlight lays blankets on that scalding and scathing pavement
And he stares
There is a thought behind his eyes
Or one too many
But I look into them, as though he were right in front of me
Though he stays yards away
He is on his own deserted island
Seemingly at will
But I can see in his drab that there is too much heat for his feet to support his ankles
As it crawls beneath his cuffed trousers
He is not brave enough to climb up the stairs to his room
Until he's seen someone he cares for
Spanish architecture in the oval entrances and charred, beige clay
Only two stories high
Every building is a part of the whole
But he sits there, idly
Completely alone
With me.
Continuance:
I think he'd reject the cigarette, and there are several ways he can do this. I'm stuck at which one he'd choose. But if I were to project, he'd wave his hand and go on a verbal rampage. "Yo dejé de fumar hacen cincuenta años." Y yo le respondería "A cuántos años?" He'd say something along the lines of 14-15 years old with a smile. "No sabes la cantidad de cigarillos que me fumaba al día. Mi papá cogía los cartones de la militar por $5 y los fumaba a semana. Un paquete entero me fumaba en vez de asistir a la clase. Cuando murió por cáncer, dejé de fumar así" and he'd snap his fingers. "Ahora no pasa nada. Toditos todos encamados y yo sin problema de salud ninguna ya a los 60 años." Le pregunto "Ni mental?" A él le da pausa, pero pronto rompe a reír.
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Author:
coracaodacripta (
Offline) - Published: February 16th, 2026 23:52
- Comment from author about the poem: I've gotten into some great discussions with Gemini who's directed my thinking pattern into a more organized unit. This sort of alludes to the overarching theme of those discussions.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 6
Offline)
Comments1
I personally love the blend of the two languages that gives the poem a more real and personal feel but this will limit your readers. This was a poem that felt so real and human. The back and forth choosing the elder voice to be Spanish gave a different feel. The discourse over smoking and the effects it had on others not the protagonist feels so real and introduces so many meanings. The introduction of even past cost of cigarettes and school are the little details that make this come alive. Nicely done
Thank you so much for your insight, Soren. The way you engage with people and their work is inspired, and encourages me to write more often. It's just so difficult lately, and often times everything I come up with is of a sordid theme. As it turns out, knowledge only seems to suppress creativity, or give it a new form. Knowing wonder makes it more difficult to create it.
It is my pleasure keep up the work. Even sordid themes have their place I have written so many poems on death, many with sadness, social anger, loneliness, depression all emotions qualify.
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