The Old Wooden Chair

A clutch of flowers appeared down the road from my back yard
Past the children’s playground on the corner of the junction
Where an old man sits on an old wooden chair that had seen better days about a hundred years ago
He oversees those flowers
Taking great care to water them occasionally
I’ve seen him there
Late at night when everyone with reason has fallen asleep,
But me
The local fiends
The restless
and the nocturnal

A few days later the flowers are accompanied by a photo or more
From passport size to A4
A smiling face seemingly out of place on the cold concrete floor
Despite the eerie beauty of the willowy bunch
The photos are losing the war and jostle for equal billing
Earned surely when accompanied by an inscription or two
An I loved you
Love you still
And
Why

The old man sits and watches on as they turn up one by one
All so young
Too young he thinks to know such grief
He’s silent and yet he weeps
He sees it far more often now
Times have changed
From when a dispute would end with a bout of name calling
A playfully chant of fight -fight- fight
To which all would gather later that afternoon to night to watch two friends circle each forever
Before cautiously delivering a punch or two
Not really meant to hurt just gently bruise
But now it’s serious
Now it ends
A destroyed family never again
To see the face of their beautiful baby boy or girl
The old man sits
In a new age world

A clutch of flowers again appeared
I know who put them there
She oversees those flowers tending them all
Adjusting the pictures against the wall
On behalf of a family
That lost it all
That night
Like the old man
On the old wooden chair
Wondering how on earn
We got here
Does anybody care