He waits patiently in queue,
dreaming dreams of all his
yesterdays gone by, and
taking little note of all around him.
But the queue moves on,
and he nears his destination as,
finally, he comes out in front.
Fumbling in his pocket
for the necessary papers,
that tell those, who need to know,
precisely what’s gone on,
he reaches out with shaky hand
to give his passport over,
to a stranger in a uniform of grey.
His uniform of grey feels tight,
as though shrunk in the wash,
but he knows that’s not the case.
So he takes a sip again
of a rich and creamy drink,
then turns and takes the passport
of an old and dreamy man
who, with shaky hand,
and saddened smile,
holds out to him his life and,
with impatient sighs,
grey uniform looks down,
glancing briefly at the passport.
The passport smells of age,
and hope, of musty paper,
and forgotten dreams.
It speaks of many yesterdays,
with little of tomorrows,
and cuts a path
in the future roads,
which join so much of life.
It tells tall tales, like Aesop,
of its mysteries and dreams.
But its pages also tell the tale
of life, writ large
in Angel’s eyes.
Written 02/06/2011. Published in Poetry.com, 2013.
The Night Owl 