The Man Who Sits Still

One could speak amply of the man that loudly speaks of his own strut,

            peacocking.

That is what one wants in terms of

            tyranny.

What of the man sitting still? Who settled all alone, humbly swallows the park bench

            in dismay.

Body crossed in the cold, keeps him from moving. From his big toe, up to his spotless,

            stiffening stare.

Facing south to the sun, maybe his poor, passionate eyes can no longer perceive the

            pursuit.

His pinched face fixed on that spot in the Earth doesn’t  budge, not even for those pretty legs,

            peripherals perhaps?

Feasibly for his baffled hatred of the world he lives in, or his inability to understand the one

            behind him.

Is he at liberty to spend half the day merely to think of its wonders, or is there no other

            choice?

Maybe it is just the recollections mocking his memory that have him frozen

             here in life.

When I sit still, something must be wrong, from OCD to ADHD, how could a blank focus

            become me?

A statute to the seat, that man stays glued upon his glazed premonition, making still who watch,

            and me.

Why, under any circumstance would I be still---here? The man who sits all day waiting

to cry.