Old John

Old John is on his porch again,

Like most days, in his chair.

He watches passersby and then

Pretends he doesn’t care.

But catch him later at his seat

On his porch in the evening air.

He’ll comment on the busy street

In ways he thinks are fair –

On how the boys are rude and crass,

Throwing wrappers on the stair

And chasing girls across the grass

To catch them by the hair.

When walking home from grammar school,

They swagger everywhere:

With haughty gaze, they think they're cool,

But really they’re just scared

Of life and all that lies ahead.

Old John – he knows that stare.

It’s the one he wears to face the dread

Of when he’s no longer there.

Don Bettez