The Dash
Robert James Moore, 17 Sept. 1754 - 19 Oct. 1831,
The weathered head stone read.
His 77 years of life contained in the dash.
I wondered how he lived.
I wondered what he though of day to day
I wondered what stories he told,
And what stories he could tell me.
What did he look like?
What did he sound like?
Who were his friends?
In his all years did he laugh?
Did he cry?
Who did he love?
My mind was filled with visions of powdered wigs
and ruffled silk lace collars.
Finely tailored knickers, knee socks and buttoned shoes.
Elegant ladies with imported French dresses,
Chinese fans and whalebone bustles.
Maybe he was an aristocrat?
Then the visions turned to dirty, tattered clothing,
gray matted hair, a filthy face smiling with no teeth.
“Alms, good sir?”
He’d ask with a frail voice and outstretched hand.
And my aristocrat would pass him by without even a glance.
The poor bastard.
I stared sadly at the stone wishing the dash could talk.
Robert James Moore, 17 Sept. 1754 - 19 Oct. 1831,
The weathered head stone read.
His 77 years of life contained in the dash.
I wondered how he lived.
I wondered what he though of day to day
I wondered what stories he told,
And what stories he could tell me.
What did he look like?
What did he sound like?
Who were his friends?
In his all years did he laugh?
Did he cry?
Who did he love?
My mind was filled with visions of powdered wigs
and ruffled silk lace collars.
Finely tailored knickers, knee socks and buttoned shoes.
Elegant ladies with imported French dresses,
Chinese fans and whalebone bustles.
Maybe he was an aristocrat?
Then the visions turned to dirty, tattered clothing,
gray matted hair, a filthy face smiling with no teeth.
“Alms, good sir?”
He’d ask with a frail voice and outstretched hand.
And my aristocrat would pass him by without even a glance.
The poor bastard.
I stared sadly at the stone wishing the dash could talk.