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He is not long, he is not short
To cause concern, he'd not resort,
His hair is combed, his skin clean
He always smiles, he's never mean.

When the sun is out, he tans his skin
When the cold is out, he best stay in,
He needs no gang, no group nor clan
He is only one, and that a man.

He reads the Times, the Journal too
Those pretty poems, he's read a few,
A question asked, he answers straight

He cannot lie nor fabricate.

His music mallow, his art soothes
He plays his games to win or lose,
A bowl of fruit, he eats at eight
And then to bed, he's never late.

His dreams are clear, his nightmares dim
His cuddly pooch sleeps next to him,
A full night's rest, and then to work
From nine to six a banker's clerk.

Near thirty years he plies his trade
Is never sick nor missed a day,
His boss heaps praise, his colleagues smile
For each of them, he's walked a mile.

Then comes that day, no man can miss
For Heaven's high or Hell's abyss,
Of this no doubt, he'll shoot up there
So where came this, this icy glare?

Aha! Here then his life to view
From bloody birth to last adieu,
There's Ben his friend from junior high
His only friend, God knows not why.

And there! that girl with curly locks
He only looked and never talked,
And see that one with bright eyes blue
She only knew him as, "Hey, you."

His high school prom, he sat and stared
As if the walls were all that cared,
His college dorms, he slept alone
His roommates seeking other homes.

A doctor's coat, he dreamed of owning
But money tight and always owing,
He took up typing, was fast and right
And had his job in a brief fortnight.

But what to say, that's all away
His eyes will close this very day,
And one last view will not make right
A life unlived, what might what might....

Learn more about this author, Michael Avila.
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