old man of king st.

even now, as you read this, he is probably sitting on his front porch.
he sits unmoving through the hot afternoon, as the lengthening shadows stripe his grizzled face, as the wind picks up and the afternoon rain soaks his stained trucker hat. he blinks eyes that are focused on some far-off time, and the water drips down his sunspotted nose, but his hands don’t move.
darkness comes, obscures him,but he remains patient and silent in his chair. the weeds—on the other hand—are restless, and growing taller by the minute in the cracks of his sidewalk that no one ever walks up.