Cat in the window

The old guy watching the Junior High baseball game didn't have any teeth. That alone made him as interesting to watch as the young boys chasing endless foul balls across that Saint Paul playground.

Where were the teeth? Did he own any? How quickly did they all come out, one by one, or all at once? Why wasn't he wearing dentures? What does it feel like, having nothing in your mouth but a tongue? Look how the absence of teeth changes the shape of his face. Is he aware of this? Does he care? Has he simply become so old he doesn't think about these things anymore? What can he eat? Can one be sure he's smiling?

He was a young man once. He was a young man with a cool chick and a lot of wild ideas about the world. He was on fire.

Not any more.

He shakes his head at the umpire. He must have a grandson playing in this game. I ask him, he says no.

His clothes look like they were purchased in 1957.

He's not with anyone. I don't think he has anyone in his life. I think he lives in an apartment across the street. He keeps turning around to look at a cat in a second story window.

Getting old often looks like a tortured trip.
But I believe it's the Holy Grail.
It's the mountain top.
No, there's not much there, but it's still the mountain top.

They know. These old S.O.B.'s know.

I can tell they know. And they don't even care that they know. To them it doesn't matter, because what they know ain't much.. So what. They're better men than I.

I dread that pain, but covet those eyes.