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Upon the porch there sat a man
Who gazed out at the sea Gray beard and crippled, there he wrote His poems of fantasy So all alone in that old house His hours kept were late But few poems were ever published Though some said they were great And he even painted pictures An artist all his life But days were spent in solitude Because he lost his wife There are few who knew him very well He kept all to himself A man of words that went unsaid And one of little wealth He had an old cat that he loved And Scooter, was her name In cat years she was just as old As him and like him, lame His only child had moved away And how he missed him so So few the visits had become How dim his life did grow One day while walking on the beach I saw him in a chair I knew him sick, so thought I'd check And hoped he didn't care At first I thought he was asleep With head upon his chest The cat was lying in his lap And both of them at rest On closer look, his open eyes Spoke truth I feared the most This gentle, unassuming man Had given up the ghost Upon the table was a poem The last that he would write It spoke of how he always fought But now gave up the fight And beside it was a letter He'd only just begun That was asking for a visit From Ben, his only son |