|Sailors Don't Know How To Cry
© Copyright George Papavgeris, August 2002
No matter how quiet or insignificant in appearance, we all have value to give; we just need to be asked.
Sitting alone in the corner
Propping the bar every night
White hair down to his shoulders,
Drawn in a pony tail tight
Fingers like pieces of driftwood
Nose that's seen many a fight.
Hand round a battered old tankard
Like leather his skin from the brine
Face full of cracks like a desert
Thin lips the only straight line
But under thick matted eyebrows
Eyes that have not lost their shine
Time there was, he's sure to tell you
When places he'd been far and wide
Many the storms that he weathered
Many the oceans he plied
Many the women who loved him
Many the friends at his side.
There was a time in Seattle
When he nearly stayed there for keeps
But decided that he could not settle
Just for some ruby red lips
Fourty years since he last saw her
Yet the longing still inside him sleeps.
As the place fills, he makes for the exit
He never was one for the crowd
He stumbles, but don't try to help him
He may not be young, but he's proud.
Slowly he shuffles his way through
His duffle coat more like a shroud.
You know where to find him tomorrow
He spends afternoons on the quay
Don't pity him sitting alone there
For lonely he will never be
He still sees those lips in Seattle
He still hears the call of the sea.
Give him your time and he'll give you his story
Of days and adventures gone by
The glint in his eye not a tear but a memory
The heave of his chest just a sigh
For old sailors don't know how to cry.
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