There is an old man
On the end of our street.
Each morning,
We see him talking to his wife.
But she never talks back.
There is too much dirt in between them
For him to hear her voice,
Telling him that she still loves him.

His heart is broken.
We all can see.
He is all alone now;
His daughter doesn’t visit.
His son doesn’t call.
Yet he still goes every morning,
And talks to his wife.
But she never talks back.
There are too many miles between them
For him to hear her voice,
Telling him that she is still there.

The old man rarely leaves the house.
He never chats with the neighbors,
He never goes to the barbeques.
But every morning,
He goes out and talks to his wife.
But she never talks back.
There is too much pain in between them
For him to hear her voice,
Telling him that she can hear him.

The old man at the end of our street
Left his house today,
Lying on a stretcher.
He didn’t get to talk to his wife this morning.
But she wouldn’t have talked back anyway.
She would be by his side,
Holding his hand,
Trying to tell him that it’s okay.

The old man’s house is empty,
The lights are never on.
But at least now,
He can go out every morning,
And talk to his wife.
And she talks back.
There is nothing in between them
For him to finally hear her voice,
Telling him that she’s always loved him.