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a brotherhood of old men

He would be a tall man on his feet, this old boy sitting alone on a bench in River Street, mouth slightly agape, chin two days be-whiskered, shoes a little dusty. A nondescript.

I had just walked past a shop doorway that had a rack of birthday cards by its entrance grouped into a vertical row of decades, aged 10 uppermost, age 80 lowermost.

I left the old man behind me to return a little later after visiting the bookshop, Mandy the lady there, says she wants to sell some of my stuff. Surfing stuff. Those I surfed with when we were boys – this is for you.

On the return I walked up to him, squatted by the side of the bench and engaged him, this old brother.

‘We don’t know each other,’ I said quietly, ‘but there is something you should know.’

He slowly turned his head .

‘It would appear that we are being discriminated against.’

‘There’s a shop up the road selling birthday cards, but none of them go any higher than 80.’

The ghost of a smile, then I left him.

One Comment Post a comment
  1. Shane Fisher #

    Heres a Poem

    Or a story, not to sure which?

    A Festival, shouts of joy, balloons, comradery
    Crowded lots of people
    A hurried boy chasing, something
    Comes to a stop at a seat

    There is a Old Man, on that seat
    He looks intently at the boy
    And hurries him along to what he was chasing

    October 7, 2019

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