Old Man

We had only just met.

He talked about his life in bits and pieces.

I was the younger man.

I didn’t have as much to say.

He spoke about his daughter marrying too young,

his wife dying the year before,

the son who left,

the house he sold,

the business that failed,

the company he worked at for 35 years

and a few other things like the table top somebody had left outside his door

and visits to his native village.

I listened with and without care.

We walked to his house.

He took 2–3 minutes to open his door with a single key he had in his pocket.

His T-shirt sleeves reached his elbows.

One of his shoes had a neat hole near the front.

There were 3 plastic chairs in his living room.

He said the house was rented, but the chairs were his.

I sat in one, he sat in another and we spoke for a while longer.

There’s nothing more to tell, really.

I took his mobile number before I left, telling him I would call but carefully promising nothing.

I guess a lot of us are all on our way to buildings and houses and rooms

with doors that will take 2–3 minutes to open

with broken bits of furniture lying abandoned outside these doors

like washed up debris on the shores of small, hidden islands.

And here we shall sit on chairs that may or may not belong to us,

waiting for the younger man(or the younger woman)

to walk in.