When I pass by,
Up Union Hill,
I know he’s inside,
Peering,
Peeking,
Silently Still,
Wondering whom am I.
I wave.
He never shows himself,
Just a shadow,
Of a guy,
But when I return.
He has left me a token,
On the post.
Somewhat of a ghost.
Lonely?
Maybe?
Alone man.
A lone house stands.
It’s our way of,
Staying in touch,
And saying,
“Hi!”
As I pass by.
Last week,
No token I spied.
The old man,
Died.
I cried.
For I had lost a friend.
In need,
In deed,
Indeed.
Author’s Note: Who was the old man?