Towards the end
good old Mr. Watts sat day-by-day
peering out of his bedroom window
at the world outside,
through the trees, over his lawn
into the street with cars and children
going by, and the paperboy and mailman,
and the delivery truck from Chet's Liquor.
He sat sipping beer from early in the day,
all day long, right up
until the end. Today
I sit and stare out
our family room window
at the tall trees and the busy road
beyond, cars riding by,
a dull gray smear like a Cezanne painting.
The difference between me
and Mr. Watts is only the beer.