Dignity Alive

A poem by Anekant.

I had seen him leave that shop before.
To make his short-but-long walk home once more.
His time-worn hat upon his head.
His plastic bag of milk and bread,
hanging
wrapped loosely round his arthritic
wrist.
He would pause a while
to catch his breath.
Not like the younger days
that he had known before
when he was strong
and felt so sure.
Now it wasn’t so robust,
it wheezed and spluttered
and seemed to lack
its youthful trust.
He takes a step-or-two then stops,
near the bench beside the shop.
He doesn’t sit,
just reaches out
to lean against the wall
a while.
To pace himself no doubt
and gather strength
to step once more
Upon his simple journey home.
Ah yes! This long walk home:
his dignity still intact.
It’s slower now with time to spare,
It’s more a shuffle
with a rounded back:
just more measured
but still on track.
He took his time to turn
and face the road again.

I would see him every now and then,
and one day I knew
that I would no longer see him anymore.

The old man carried himself
as best he could.
The angle at his hip
could
only be described
as:
‘acute’.
He leaned precariously out one way,
then compensated
with a spinal sway,
counterbalanced at his neck,
that then inclined the other way
towards the left.
one leg curved
portside-wise.
And this in turn
created counterbalance
to his firm right hand grip
upon his walking stick.
A piece of ancient choreography.
A certain aged and rare form
of inner ballet:
practised and rehearsed
at every step upon his way.
He was indeed an elegant
and aged metaphor of symmetry.
A poetic stanza of life’s twisted dignity:
of each and every thought,
and each and every fear,
and every joy he ever had
recorded in the bones
and in the muscles of his back.
But OH! How touched I am.
How moved I am inside
by this old man
just walking home
alone.