Oh, that poor old guy, I thought,
as we neared one another,
he leaving the office building
and I walking toward it.
He tread gingerly upon his right foot,
leaned forward, in that trusting fall
called one step, and caught himself,
a halting thump on his left.
Silver hair framed the dark portholes
to his soul and his shoulders bowed,
perhaps from the weight of lifelong
expectations, duties and disappointments.
I recognized them and discovered
I recognized the man when I put on
my glasses, lest all this middle-aged
self-reflection meet my reflection
in that sunlit doorway glass.
Poem Number 5, another 100-word drabble from the old, self-reflecting poet guy, during this poem-a-day April of 2014.