The old man sat on the park bench,
His home,
A tattered coat his shelter,
Life's forces draining from him,
Passerby not meeting his eye,
Thinking, 'Thank God, it's not I,'
A squirrel was looking at him,
Flexing its bushy tail,
An act of acknowledgement,
Then other little animals came around,
Looking at the old man from the ground,
A mangy dog came and laid at his feet,
An alley cat jumped up into his lap,
A veteran of the street,
The old man heard the birds in song,
Their symphony told him,
That he did belong,
He laid down with the cat upon his lap,
A final look at the fading blue sky,
He closed his eyes,
The old man had found a pleasant place to die.

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