He was an old man with tired eyes—
The kind that open only in part—
Too many days in the sun you see
Working with body and arms.
Later he wandered the cobblestone alleys,
Shuffling to errands that worried him still,
Clutching an expired savings book in his hand
His daughter gave him to comfort his perforated mind.
But that day in honesty he had said,
“After the children are fed,
Reared, schooled as best as we can,
Our other hope is for a normal end.”
