Sunday afternoon, the leaves are falling ,
through the curtains tightly closed, as not to glare,
' the sun creeps through and brightens up that darkness,
Where an old man sits and rocks his wooden chair.
His years are maybe two, and well he knows it - - -
Yes, he is dying now and doesn't even care,
because, he knows he lived his life the way he wanted,
And he sees that as he rocks his wooden chair.
There is so much he could have done,
and now he sees that,
but, for times gone past, he feels no despair,
For in his day, he was as good as anyone ...
- - - most likely, better ...
And he relives that - - - As he rocks his wooden chair !
Barry Van Allen
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wooden-chair/
