Rumpled newspaper in hand
Sits the old man,
Cold morning air sends a chill
Through a heavy overcoat,
Sunday morning light filtering
Through burnished leaves of autumn
Kindling thoughts of Sundays long gone,
Waking next to his wife,
The sound of children filling the house;
Now children grown – wife gone,
Sunday mornings bring only rumpled papers
On a park bench,
Although I now live in a small town, I have lived in many large cities. I have witnessed the subject of this poem time and time again. I’m sure you have too.
This poem was published in Quality American Poetry, 1975-1976, Book III.
The anthology was published by Valley Publications and edited by William Lloyd Griffin.