These Were His Days

Rain washed the snow away. Blacktop streets shined. Brown grass in front yards exposed. So was dog shit.

The old man kept an eye on the neighborhood. Watched as the paper boy threw his goods up on the front porches. Riding along on his bike. Being chased by the mutt across the street.

Streetlights glowed in the early morning hours. The sun was coming up over the city. Joggers ran their usual course. Right past him while he looked on with a cup of coffee in his hand.

Women spoke as they ran. Talking about husbands and children, grocery lists and errands to run. You could see their breath. A few cars would pass. Men going to work. Whistling at the housewives. They were flattered. But, kept face by calling them pigs.

He put on his sweater and went out to the front porch. Smoke poured from chimneys. A new pope had been elected. The old man said his morning prayers. He was thankful. Glad to still be alive.

The morning sun shined down on him. It warmed his soul, his face. These were his days.

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