New Poem: The Old Man in the Photograph

This poem was inspired by the photograph below, which was taken by my friend Michallynn, who has an excellent blog of her own.  I really enjoyed the photograph when I initially saw it and knew I had to write about it.  I began by writing everything that came to mind and then chiseled the poem away from the bulk.  This is what I ended up with.  Enjoy.

The Old Man in the Photograph

"Stranger" by Michallynn Vilushis

In front of what might be a grocery store,

An old man creeps up to the edge of the curb,

Watching as the evening sun stretches his shadow

Across the cracked macadam of the parking lot.

How long he looks surprises even him,

His shadow-self now tall and thin as memory.

It’s autumn and he’s unemployed, retired,

And the warm color of his hair has fled.

Perhaps it’s Sunday and he’s leaving church

Alone.  Maybe his family has rushed ahead

And the car is running, anxiously waiting

For him to climb inside and join them.

                                                   

                                                         

                                                                                 I can almost see it, the minivan humming

                                                                                 And shaking impatiently, fumes leaking sluggishly

                                                                                 From the exhaust, in between the endless rows,

                                                                                 Each car packed tightly in a coffin of white lines.

                                                                                 Mumbling a prayer or a list of things forgotten,

                                                                                 With an air of solemn care about him, he stands

                                                                                 In dress clothes that have been outgrown, his frail form

                                                                                 Bowing gently to the end of something.

                                                                                 Every day it’s as though we say a eulogy to our youth,

                                                                                 To the seconds that hurry past in urgency and leave us

                                                                                 Stranded, wondering if we’ll be remembered,

                                                                                 And with a hope that they’ll be coming back.