The route home is almost always the same
Plodding along with the help of his cane
Past the shop windows displaying their wares
Being invisible thus impervious to stares
Pushing along through the evening hubbub
He feels quite alone due to societal snubs
Envious of diners in their outdoor cafés
Swaddled in toney clothes and diamond displays
He pauses by a flower box bordering a table
And plucks off a sprig, just because he is able
He carefully crushes it between thumb and palm
And slowly saviors it's sweet smelling balm
"This is my little treat," to himself he thinks
Then gives two observers two furtive little winks
Somebody's actually noticed his face
So he feels a connection with the human race
Turning his attention to the sidewalk ahead
Its time to press on to get home to bed