The way he stands makes him look fragile,
But I bet, back in the day he was agile.
His back curves into a dramatic arch,
His steps, so loud, it’s like a march.
The expression on his face looks about to melt,
It must be from all the pain he has felt.
It’s sad to see him growing so old
And look at the world with such a scold.
I sit and wonder what his life was like,
Maybe he used to enjoy an occasional strike?
After all, he does have very strong views
I think that must have been his muse.
Or Maybe he was in the war?
That is something I’d have to account for.
And yet, I sit on a bench, watching him stand,
Watching him stand, with a cane in his right hand.
I know better than to see him as weak,
Because based on his past, who am I to critique?