The Morning Newspaper

His flesh wrapped
skeleton creaks and cracks,
from years of mashing muscles
inside his knotted back.

A piece of half rotten drift wood
became his cane.
The condition of his withered body
has been his bane.

Sitting down in his sun room
corner of cool shade,
he reads the morning
newspaper reminded of his old age.

The pages turn to obituaries
of so many men he used to call his friend.
Here he finds it hard to face
the faces of those who’ve reached their end.

He thinks of how times have
changed and then,
motioning towards his table,
reaches for his pen.  

Writing over the wrinkled pages
he talks
about the loss of breath it takes
to travel out of this life and through
the doors of death.