He was a thick-skinned old coot. And no one knew his history.
He just seemed to appear one day. On the park bench. He sat there
with the pigeons, newspapers crumpled in his lap. Never talked,
never flinched when the kids hit baseballs close or when the rain fell.
I’d rush by and he just stared. At the newspapers, in his lap. All that summer,
he sat like that. And then he was gone. Like the summer’s warmth. Just gone.
WP Writing 201 prompts: Prose poem, skin, internal rhyme.