The Watcher

Old, feeling ancient,
He sits on his porch
Rests on his porch swing
Grizzled brown mountain cur
Curled up by his side.
Weary, bleary, rheumy
Eyes fixed on the road.

Watching, patiently waiting
Sitting so quiet, so very still

The soft, rythmic snoring
Of his worn little dog
Is the only sound to hear.
Way down yonder,
Far piece down the road
The sound of an engine
The dust rising from the road
Beat up old Ford truck
Shakes, rattles, rolls
Comes closer, closer
Slow, passes by.
Old man, most ancient
Throws up a hand
Driver responds
Nod, touch of the hat.
Truck rumbles and gone.

Old, feeling ancient,
He sits on his porch
Rests on his porch swing
Grizzled brown mountain cur
Curled up by his side.

Weary, bleary, rheumy
Eyes fixed on the road.               Watching, patiently waiting