The Ones That Are Left Behind Poem by Daleen Enslinstrydom

When the car stops in the driveway
I am tired, hot and sweaty
and my feet are killing me.

I hoot to get the attention
of the occupants of the small tattered house
that is situated in a middle-class neighbourhood.

It seem like it takes forever
for the old pensioner to come out of the house
and at the locked gate
he leans forward and are bended and skew
and looks like a broken reed.

His face looks tired, lifeless and drained,
his voice is husky and grating
when he displaces his dogs
to stop barking.

With trembling hands and thankfulness
he takes the plate of food from me
and there are tears in his eyes.

“Thank you my child, ” he says
and looks at me as if I am a angel
that has descended from heaven.

When last have somebody called me child, I wonder.
When he turns back with his bended body
to his tattered house
I want to comfort him,
I want to protect him
but he is but a stranger to me
and somebody to whom I do only deliver food.

When the Meals on Wheels car drives off
with me behind the steering wheel
I am aware of the wretchedness
of the older generation
that society has left behind
while the world still does continue.

In my own simplicity
I bend my head and pray
that I may be called child,
even if only
in the eyes of the ones that are left behind.