retirement

the man sat on the
park bench bathing
in the sun,
his hat tilted back so
as to let the rays
warm his face. a cigar
was in one hand, held
lightly between two
fingers, but he didn't
feel like lighting it,
he was aware though
of it's weight, it's
length, it being there,
like a prop of sorts.
he liked to sit there
during lunch hour, when
the buildings would empty
and people would bring
their sandwiches out
to sit on the grass
and eat. the cool fall
breeze made everything
and everyone feel good,
and there was a calmness
about the park, about
the lovers who would
meet there too, and hold
hands briefly, or
find a shady tree to
hold each other and
whisper to one another.
and the man watched it all,
apart from it, as if he
was an audience and they
were all playing roles
in a world he was no
longer involved with.