All day he sits and stares at life–
This man whose days are numbered.
His friends, his cronies, and his wife
For many years have slumbered.
Who knows what thoughts are in his head–
What hopes, what memories, what fears?
His world consists of chair and bed
And a few old souvenirs.
Patiently he awaits the end.
Gladly all his life he gave
To family, neighbor, and friend–
And his reward is but the grave.
June 16, 1940