The day

 Another day slips away,

quietly, nonchalantly;

A retired bespectacled afternoon, 

stretches out on a dusty old armchair 

in the patio,

disintrestedly turning the pages

of an old newspaper, 

or is it today's?

He can't tell the difference anymore.

The tea has turned cold and tastes bitter, 

the creased croners

of his scaled salmon lips,

turn down in silent discontent. 

He searches his pockets, 

his wrinkled hands, 

fumble to find a packet of damp cigarettes,

a meticulously rolled up

sleeve comes hanging lose,

he stares, 

at the cigarette, 

the very last one left, 

at the matchbox lying on the stool besides,

at the rickety wooden steps of the patio, 

and then into the distance,

where the dusty village path 

fades into inexistence. 

He calls out for the boy,

who's already taken the bus to the city,

two hours ago, 

he props himself 

on an elbow, 

gets up, slips. 

Another day slips away, 

dusk falls!