The Old Man

His moustache suspended above his lip
Like an engineered work of art,
The old man’s barrel-bellied appetite
Concealed his watchfulness.
My friend, his future son-in-law, told me
He studied people like they were animals.
The same way he’d painted the birds on his wall,
Creatures he’d loved so much he’d caught them,
To keep close beyond death,
Company for his own old age.

He talked about how his village had shrunk and moved
To the city, just like him. How the country ways were lost.
The ancient arts of olive oil, wine, cheese,
Butchering a lamb, choosing the prime tomatoes –

But he showed no regret. The city paid you to live well
Where the country no longer could. He’d lived through the
Change, which was history, and cannot be begrudged.


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