Front porch

Whenever I walk up or down the stairs that lead to my third floor apartment, I see the same thing. An older man, on the stairwell across from me. He sits in his chair silently, usually working on something with his hands. I imagine he carves figurines. He has flower pots all along the railing, and a cross pinned up on the wall. Beside him sits his slightly ragged, albeit healthy, looking dog. Shaggy wheat colored fur and a somber face rest on paws, occasionally sniffing at some insect passerby. I admit, I strain my neck to see inside his apartment when he leaves the door opened. A flower vase, a coffee table, old pictures; everything looks at least fifty years old. Sometimes he smokes a cigarette and stares off into some place I can't quite catch a glimpse of. He is always there. He lives alone.

I don't ever want to be that man,
even though he might be happier than I ever will be.