It was a cart once made for shopping Now lost and long forgoten It was a cart once silver and shiny Now old, disgusting and grimy
She found it there in an unused lot It was exactly what she had sought In it she placed her worldly belongings Including her hopes, her dreams, and longings
She took it with her wherever she went Hours organizing it where spent Not one thing about that cart was inept She knew every scrap of paper, and were it was kept There was room for her clothes, she had very few Far less than anyone knew A spot for the table scraps she managed to find Who knew you could live on less than a dime
But there in the middle you'll find two old tattered tins Her most prized possessions where tucked safely within
One tin was for the past and things that are no more With child like eyes, she'd peek in and explore For both Joy and Sorrow are contained inside Amongst the Polaroids of life, a lock of child's hair did reside
The other was for her hopes and dreams They carried her on, when there seemed to be no means Even when all the dreams eventually explode and collide Hope will still be standing strong by her side
Her life as it is now, out here on the streets Was unexpected, not planned......the memory repeats
A bright sunny day Soaking up the sun's rays Both out by their pool Him sitting at the bar on a stool But little boys sure do like to giggle They squirm, and they wiggle
Her out stretched fingers grazed his shirt as he fell Her screams of anguish no one could quail As she held his limp body pleading for him to open his eyes Screaming at the heavens..... WHY.... WHY.... WHY
Now on this block you can find her every day Pushing that shopping cart as she limps and she sways Come bare witness to the sad aftermath One split second, changed a life's path
I see the tears welling up in his eyes As he sets there, with a heavy sigh These thoughts on his mind heavily weigh Under his breath I could hear him say "I'm getting so very forgetful" "I'm looking so **** pitiful"
He turned 87 a week ago His age is starting to show He feels deaths grip closing in His skin is paper thin He's always cold even in the sweltering heat of summer His hearing is almost gone, it's all just mummers He talks of how his legs don't work so well any more The act of getting up is such a chore
He has taken to cussing like a sailor But reads the bible, getting ready to meet his creator "Growing old in not for the weak or faint of heart This growing old **** is hard"