Security, Emptiness, Comfort, and Quiet

Along a paseo of afternoon daydreams,
A conversation ambles, in and out of shade.

The bearded, professorial old gentleman
Seems to be contentedly talking to himself.

It’s a terrible universe, terrible world,
Terrible human race, he mutters happily.

He’s got hardly a cent to his name, but he eats
What he likes, and he sleeps pretty well, and for now

His days are mostly sunny and pleasant enough,
And his nights are mostly dark, and cloudless, and starred.

He lifts his head and peers down the long colonnade,
Troubled by thoughts he struggles to articulate,

Which he knows don’t really need articulating.
There’s shade in his eyes, shafts of sunlight in his beard.

It’s a terrible universe, terrible world,
Terrible human race, he smiles, nods, and repeats.