THE ANONYMOUS OLD

I think I can see them now
Horizontal lines upon worried brow
Wizen face and down turned lips
Dirt coated finger tips

Pants held together with some thread
The old man rummaging for bread
In the trash can left behind
By the garbage man who was kind

Opaque eyes sees no tomorrow
Clouded over with intense sorrow
Hunger his companion now
Where to get some food and how

Shiny cars go whizzing by
Drowning the old man's cry
When he spots a dried up bread
Triumphant hands above his head

Hasty young footsteps seldom stop
No one has time to drop
A few coins in the toil creased hands
Or the hat held together by rubber bands

Was this the man who toiled for us?
Or was he someone who drove a bus?
Perhaps he wore a three-piece suit
Or some gang man amassing loot

Today he's just too old
To be part of the elite fold
In history his story untold
This old man once quarried gold

What to do with life that's done
Gone with youth all the fun
Existence being the only role
Death being the old man's goal

Smile lights up the sunken cheeks
Eating bread that rots and reeks
Life I marvel at your strangle hold
More covetous than all the gold.

~Siddharth Sanyal~