A quiet park inside the urban sprawl,
it held a wooden walk where lovers stroll
and old men totter by as mothers call
their children closer, reaching hands to hold.
Sick of heart, sick in his heart, he walks;
a man not old, not young, not in his prime.
Inclines his head in passing, will not talk;
each step a war on body's soft decline.
What used to take ten minutes takes an hour.
The humid heat hangs heavy in his chest.
A bench invites beneath an oaken bower;
perhaps a moment's respite would be best.
His aching legs won't do as they are bid,
so he sat down to rest, and rest he did.