I often imagine George
cooped up in his matrimonial quarters,
fighting the Lonely wars,
as the weather gets colder.
Neither because he’s a slave to the dark.
Nor because he’s a longtime widower.
Simply because George doesn’t get out much;
I understand he’s lost his zest for life.
And believing it’s lost in a mojito,
he frequents the LCBO,
with delusions of buying it back.
It’s become a ritual,
sometimes even his sole motivation
to keep breathing,
while waiting to eschew his final breath.
especially on old age pension,
is cheaper in the dark.
So imagine how startling it was
to find George,
all chatty and gay,
resting on his walker,
enjoying a 15 degree October day.
As his neighbour raked and thrust mulch
up and into a Canadian Tire paper bag,
George too was busy,
observing a pretty, young passerby.
He claimed her smile complimented fall’s finery,
like the sun shining through the valiant leaves
still clinging to the nearly naked maple trees.
Then he smiled,
saying he was happy to see me,
despite a foul Fall’s attempts to steal his joys —
delivering winter like a premature child.
We both know the pleasantry will pass.
The weather will get colder
and George will return
to barricading himself from chill,
and hefty utility bills.
send many angels
to bless his shadowy existence,
and stay the walls from completely closing in.