Once again the stirring and the light sit down together in the night.
His strength wore down by weeks work pile.
He needs her for a little while.
He reads his rhymes of life and love.
She listens quiet as a dove.
Her eyes they twinkle oft with joy.
Does she listen or does she toy.
He looked into those pools of brown.
Wondering if her mind does frown.
Each poem he does recite with fire.
Hoping in her creation to inspire.
The time is short. She will not dally.
Her evenings wants within her rally.
The time has come to part and go.
He bids her luck both high and low.
Then walks away his home to go.
The Old Guy
18 Mar 2001
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