Old Man

An old man, dressed like our fathers, in a hat, sweater, shirt and tie, was standing on the edge of the street. His hands were at his side, one holding a cane while the other shook uncontrollably. He mumbled as I walked by.
…So, I stopped and I asked.

“Excuse me sir! Is everything alright?”
“No!” He said, “The bus is late; it’s usually on time.
But today it’s late. Otherwise, I’m fine.”

I said, “Sir, It’s been ten years since the bus stopped here.”
…He stared at me, what seemed like forever.
He got real old and his body surrendered.
He dropped his head, his shoulders fell.
He whispered, “Son…, I don’t feel so well.”

I asked him his name, he said "John Cook."
I held out my hand, in which he shook.
I said, "John, if you have time.
How ‘bout some coffee - it'll be my dime.”

The Old Man worked hard for a smile,
And said, “That would be nice and
if you would, I mean, if you have the time,
could you stay awhile?”

So we sat and talked, spoke of old times.
He told his stories and I told mine.
It was strange how similar our lives had been.
The same old stories, over and over again.

The more he spoke the more I learned.
The more he spoke, his memory returned.
And then, in quiet-refrain, he mumbled,
“Son…, what’s your name?”

I looked at him, thought a second or two,
And said; “That’s funny! It’s the same as You!”

…And there I sat, all alone.

The stories I told were those of my own.
An old man in my hat, sweater, shirt and tie,
my hand was shaking, and my cane was at side.