Old piece of wire,
He sits next to me,
Four hours to make Melbourne,
Eighty years to make a life.

Withered and shrunken,
Like a drowned Ghost Gum,
On the flats around Lake Grace,
He’s got salt in his bones.

Incapacitated,
Short-circuited by a stroke no doubt,
Half a face, one arm, one leg,
Twice as many challenges.

Ignored,
I look past him,
He’s not a fashionable accessory,
For business or pleasure.

Enquiring of me,
He gives me a knowing look,
He can see past my suit and tie,
The pretence of my “executive look”.

Sensing his thoughts…
You’re not so important son”,
I’ve seen your type before”,
Hey ! I’m not invisible !”

I reflect,
I’ll be eighty one day,
And if I ever take a flight to Melbourne,
I hope I don’t sit next to me.

Wayne Scheggia

Meet Wayne Scheggia