Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the little old man, “I do that, too.”
The little boy whispered, “Sometimes I wet my pants.”
“Sometimes, I do that, too,” laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
“But worst of all,” said the little boy,
“it seems grown ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
“I know what you mean,” said the little old man.
“Little old men?” I see them every day. They sit quietly in the fast food store sipping coffee and reading their newspaper, or in the mall, watching others pass. Occasionally, they nod to someone or someone nods to them. But mostly they just sit, lost in their memories.
I have to go. There’s someone I need to smile at over in the mall.
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