Old happy wise

 
 
Sitting there in that waiting room
In that garage with six other people
All staring straight ahead
I sat quietly by myself
Inside my head.

How daft it was we that had nothing to say.
Even though we did.
But six strangers dare not.
One Irish man though who couldn’t stand
Without his short stick spoke up.

His life was worth speaking of.
And did he speak of it?

On and on and on he went,
This happy man who loved his wife
And his life.
This plasterer who knew
Every way to make any wall smooth.

He had wisdom
Did this droning man
That at first I made myself politely
Listen to.

And as he spoke I became transported
Into a world that was smaller but wealthier
Than mine
In contentment.

He was a happy man.
And I was not.
And his happiness derived
From not knowing too much,
From being what he was
And not thinking about being more.
 
 

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