On a bench under the flood-lit evening's
orange hue that makes the lines on his hands seem ...deeper
as if etched by time, and moulded stronger.
It's been a long day and its a long way home.
The upstart rides his bike in figure-eights around lampposts and billboards
no worries, no cares, no bills, no distant stares.
Its way past the time he should've been home
the whole world for the taking but it seems like he doesn't want it.
The fool.
He'd kill to go back to when he was that young, and there were new prospects on the ever widening horizon.
He has no new milestone.
He has no awakening future.
His days have been lived.
His choices made.
And its too late to make amends for a life he didn't dream of living.
The train inches into its designated platform
to take him home, to a warm cup of soup, the 11 o'clock news
and black and white memories of glory days now so empty.
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