the old man in the rocking chair pt. 1

there once was an old man

and that old man was me

I sat there on my rocking chair, a joint in my mouth

I had a beard in a grey-white tone like the sky on a rainy day – full of melancholy

my fair, the same colour was covered by a plaid beret hat

in my hands I held a coffee to go-

a latte espresso as always since my teenage years

the taste was as familiar as the lines in the palm of my hand

it tasted like the song of birds on a morning in spring,

and like the warm tones of a piano in the evening united with singing violins

my other hand rested on the head of my sleeping golden retriever

scratching his neck, my hand disappearing in his thick blonde fur,

even warmer than my coffee – thou not in the literal sense

my rocking chair stood in the corner of my antiques shop beside some street of grey cobblestone

outside my window, I saw a few green trees with white benches beneath them

where I often sit during in the golden afternoon sun, watching the birds fly

in my store, I sold everything that’s old but the best things I kept for myself

I had a great collection of records and an antique electric guitar

I never learned to play professionally, but I had taught myself a bit