Watermelon Seeds

Old man on a park bench,

Hungry pigeons at his feet.

Gnarled fingers fumble and

Find a small bag of roasted,

Pocket-warm seeds. How fast

The tasty snack goes! Why, 

He barely began, and of the 

Bite-sized pleasures, there’s 

Almost no more!

Silent communion of bird and man,

Unnoticed, the light slowly dims

Overhead. But hush, what’s that

Sound? Distant church bells, or

The hollow ringing of an hourglass

In which no more sand is found?

The thought leaves a sour taste

In the mouth, wrinkled lips quiver,

The pigeons scatter and take flight,

No more light, no more sound --

A crumpled, empty bag falls to the ground.