Old Man

Old man
I look at you,
across from me.
Your face marred with pitted, angry, fiery, skin;
pieces turned white, loosely hanging from your nose and forehead.
Your ragged ears eaten by . . .
I can’t figure out what—for fear you catch me looking too long.

You are waiting,
have been waiting all day for your appointment.
There is a peace about you, an air of patience, 
which—you tell me—you did not always possess.
You sit slightly stooped over:
in submission? Burdened? Stoically accepting of your long-suffering? 
I keep searching for eye contact; 
you look up and find me—at intervals.

You talk
and tell me about the old days.
I listen
and realize how the world has changed;
how you have not changed with it,
because there was no need,
it did not add value.
In fact, life is not about change anymore,
or conveniences—you describe you do not have,
or vacations—you say you used to take,
or being bigger and better than . . .

Now you are living life and abandoning it in the process;
aware of the progression
of sacrificing your freedom,
your independence.
You live alone, imprisoned by memories
of better days,
insufferable regrets,
unforgiven deeds.

Here I find you, sipping coffee, surrounded by strangers with different diagnoses, 
but a common prognosis: looming death.
And yet, you put life in perspective. 
The acceptance of your journey lived with all its shortcomings and missing pieces
which you openly share despite your overwhelming shyness,
captivates me.

Old man,
you kept me awake last night,
wondering what I am still waiting for,
what I will regret.
And . . . 
if I will be patient while waiting,
telling someone—a stranger—
what is still important—if anything—
when I am 
an old woman.