He looks up at his flowers, old and wilting
For years
decades,
they have lain there
No longer do visitors come,
bouquets of blossoming flowers clutched in their hands
Some weeping, others laughing.
His motel of Memories is closed.
In time it will turn back to the earth,
but he will still stand at the outdated front desk
looking hoping.
Hoping that someone will return to his long forgotten grave,
and place a bouquet of new, colorful flowers
at the base of his crumbling grave stone.
Maybe someone will come,
searching through the long abandoned shopping mall
She will enter through the old front door,
pushing it aside,
letting the sheet of rotting wood swing on its rusting hinges,
paint chipping off of its moldy face.
And see him sitting there at the outdated front desk,
eyes gazing ahead.
Perhaps she will greet the old weary man,
Perhaps she will place a bouquet of beautiful flowers at his grave.
Or perhaps she will turn
and walk quickly out the old broken front door,
her young eyes averted,
not wanting to meet the gaze of the old, dead man.