Waiting For Redemption Poem by Allan Thorne

He sits across from me
Avoiding my eyes
Talking to anyone but me.

There was a time,
When he was young,
When he sat at the table,
pencil in hand,
Looking at me expectantly,
Waiting to take notes
On what ever tripe
I had to hand him.

It is hard but it is just
The icons must be thrown down
The old order trampled under foot
To make way for something new.

I will have to wait
For him to find me again,
Pick me up
Wash off the neglect
And decide if there isn't something there
Of value after all.