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Poetry
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| Round Old Man | |
| By amanda4uk | ||||||
| 08 January 2007 | ||||||
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Out on the bench he sits, beside the Chemist shop, he’s there, every day, on his own, just sitting. Matted, grey hair, like an ancient woven hat, frames his telling face. His skin, like a worn out old brown over coat, thick, weathered and creased. The round old man, wearing dirty clothes and eating ice cream. He smiles at every body, No one notices, they walk on past, they always do.
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