Old Man

He looked back at the old school. Paths of concrete reach from the grey dull buildings, like fingers, stretching, for the dying grass of the oval. Withered like the old man. The children play there, like the old man once did. He had friends then boys like himself. They wrestled on that grass, a lock of arms and legs. Clothed in his woollen cardigan, a barrier against the cool air, the old man curls in on himself. A lone pigeon hungrily watches the crumpled bag in the old man’s hand. But the old man gives nothing and the birds squawks and leaves the old man. Alone. -Billy Allen