His Flower

His Flower

 The clock strikes 2:32,

 

And I glance out my window as I always tend to do.

He’s there again, that little old man

With a smile on his face and a flower in his hand.

His wrinkly features are worn and bare,

And the ring on his left hand is no longer a pair.

He approaches his table at the outdoor café,

And on the chair across from him, the flower he lays.

He orders a coffee and a tea,

One he will drink, the other he leaves.

He observes others as they pass by,

With a longing look and a twinkle in his eye.

Across the way was a little ice cream shop,

A boy emerged with an apron on and a hat on top.

The boy lovingly glanced at the bakery next door,

Where a young girl resided sweeping the floor.

Her hair, long, was tied on each side,

She looked at him kindly and smiled wide.

The old man blinks and gives a downcast glance,

And continues to wait, now awaken from his trance.

I asked him once, “What do you wait for?”

He told me, “I wait for the girl from the store.”

If you talk to him his eyes become hazy,

He’ll hand you his flower and tell you about Daisy.