« Lucent Blue »

He sits on the bench upright as I approach. Staring at the rose stumps pruned back hard. Expressionless in the early light and dew yet his aspect is mourning. Shoulders grieving under a tidy practical gillet, the type a man might choose for himself. A belly once-loved gone to pot heaves, hands clasped neatly. I want a barky dog to skid from under the Rhododendrons to have his head ruffled, but I fear he is alone.