The Meaning of Life

When I was young I'd go to the park to watch the girls, some were flirty, some were surly, some had straight hair, some wore curls, and I'd see an old man alone on a bench almost the whole day long, sitting and drowsing and bobbing his head as if singing some internal song, and he carried with him day after day a thick, tattered old book, its pages dog-eared, its cover torn, and I wanted to take a look, so one day I sat down beside him and he scooted farther away. I craned my neck to peer at the book and, affronted, he muttered, Good day, so, emboldened, I asked, What are you reading? 'Tis the wisdom of the ages I've got me here, now where is this talk leading? Chastened, I moved away and left him to it, but wisdom of the ages, meaning of life, I knew I had to see though it invited more strife, so I watched and waited and after awhile he stretched, rose and started to roam, and my heart quickened as I could see on the bench he'd left the old tome. I strolled over, reached down, lifted it, clutched tightly the wisdom of the ages, then with trembling hands I opened it, but saw only blank pages, not one or a few, there was nothing. I didn't notice him returning until I looked up, there he stood, seeming larger, his eyes brightly burning. I stammered, So sorry, and he gave a faint smile, There you have it, he said, I come to the park to watch the girls, I may be old, but I'm not dead, the book I keep as a prop, so people won't see what I'm up to and try to force me to stop. By the way, he said, you search for life's meaning, well, your guess is as good as mine, life has no one meaning for all, just take it a day at a time.

Bluejay

Veteran of old My Poetry Forum before its hiatus. Happy to be back.

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