Glass

by

Richard Betts Jr.

He sits at home next to the phone,
But no one ever calls.
He sits at home all alone,
Watching shadows pace the walls.

Pretend that you stop by his house,
Just on a whim.
And decide that you
Will visit with him.

And he tells you all about
Pork Chop Hill,
And the blood and tears
His friends did spill.

He tells you all about
The sunny day,
He met and talked
With JFK.

He talks and teaches
About the past,
And helps you see
The mountain of glass.

As he goes on,
You're pleasantly surprised.
And amazed at the treasures
Behind his blue eyes.

You see, it's not his mind
That has gotten old.
It's the younger hearts
That are cold as stones.

So . . . you never did
Get that whim,
To just stop in
And check on him.

Alone and tired,
The old man waits,
And the mountain of glass
Starts to break.

NEXT?
Why don't you look at Bluest
by: A'prition
from: Atlanta, GA, US

To visit all of Richard Betts Jr.'s poems, click HERE

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