dying in the wind

the old man
with his bad heart,
nearing 80 likes his warm milk
before bed time.

a kiss upon the cheek.

he's bent,
arthritic and cold in this wind
as he rakes
the leaves. waving a crooked
hand
to his crooked neighbor.

he's lost in his mistakes.
his criminal life,
the promise
of youth and fortune have
failed him.

it's sad to see him in his
stolen yard,
grey, barely
able to kneel
and pray
each morning at his pew.

believing that the church will
save him,
but much too late,

as those around him,
his children,
his wife,
patiently wait to
dig his unpaid grave.