The Poet

by Jerry Ferguson

Sitting on the park bench with his pen and pad in hand

He looked around, closed his eyes and looked around again.

A few kids rode by on their bicycles.

An old guy barely made it to the next bench.

A young couple were making out on the grassy patch in front of him.

Birds were singing like crazy.

It was a beautiful, sunny Spring Time day.

A truly soft wind gently resuscitated everything it touched.

The suns rays were reaching to the point of warmth.

The Poet blinked and said to himself,

"What the hell am I doing here?"

Getting up in a huff he walked off, unimpressed by life and everything else around him.

He walked the streets, to him, without seeing or being seen.

The poet walked towards his home.

He walked towards his small, empty, stale apartment that he called home.

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