Lost in times of yore, he hides from society
And only contributes his opinion.
Nosy in a fastidious manner;
Helping only in a dire emergency,
He longs for a chance to change the past.

His self-esteem not entirely intact,
He exhibits a skillful dexterity
In the fragrant nuances of flavored tobacco
Yet still finds no meaningful purpose
Until strangers wander to him for a prose...
For an interesting tid-bit.

But then...a chance! An opportunity so off the cuff
To do something different than he'd done before;
To pay closer attention has assailed him to no mercy
And he is drawn zombie-like into its clutches.

He watches; he waits well-nigh,
As the opportunity nearly dies with the angel and yes,
He once again mislays the prospect but for the heaviness
Of his tired old legs, now weighed down to the cold Chicago ground.

Nevertheless, God granted him the occasion to spy something
That he'd ne'er laid eyes upon before...
No, not the death of an angel,
For with that he was all too familiar.

Rather, the old man gained redemption
And a fresh posture toward impossibility in his dwindling years.
Yes, the man watched the birth of an angel
Evolve from the death of a man.

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