The old man walks down the street
Cobbled and uneven
Bent over against the cold
Of this the winter season

With the aid of a stick he navigates
The badly rutted lane
Deeply etched grooves line his face
From surviving in constant pain

In his head his thoughts are in
A constant random wander
Precious moments of his life
Lost in contemplative squander

'Tis his daily chore bestowed
On him to buy the bread
To fail in this a simple task
Would bring war down on his head

Reaching the store he enters
Hiding from pitiful stares
Head downcast he makes his way
To the shelf of required wares

His basket full he makes his way
To the counter to pay his bill
Purchases paid, he turns to leave
Praying his shopping not to spill

As he leaves the store he hears
The whispers behind his back
"Why does he keep on doing it?"
His drooping shoulders slack

Once outside he hurries
Scurries back from whence he came
As fast as his arthritic legs will take him
An added burden is his shame

Back to his eternal prison
The place he once called home
Never left to his own devices
Perchance he should choose to roam

His wife is standing waiting
For him at the front door
Her face twisted in roiling anger
Her venom over him to pour

A nasty piece of work is she
No patience for his age acquired senility
Treating him like a mongrel dog
With waves of open hostility

So sad to see this once young man
Who has seen life and so much more
Reduced to being a bidden slave
And forced to daily chore

How life can be so cruel and fate
Play the meanest of all tricks
Just by choosing a wrong life mate
Be caught in constant conflicts

Yet day after day he continues
To walk the road of shame
For go he must and listen he does
For the woman who bears his name