I was told that I should try to write some of my poems in prose. I have tried prose before and find that my mind wanders too much. I am trying to write my prose from an established poem.

 

The Chair (Prose)

The old man sits in a chair by the door

waiting to hear the scrape of a shoe,

the roar of a engine,

or the ring of a phone.

The body weakens, skin becomes rice paper thin.

The face sags,

wrinkled, drooping,

spotted with age.

The light leaves and the lawn fills with dew.

No headlights appear,

he wearies, shuffles off to bed.

Sun rises, so does the man reclaiming the chair.

his brow furrows

face lined with care’

Muscles twitch.

Awake, reality returns, seen through rheumy eyes.

Youth‘s disappeared,

loneliness aging him.

Amazed how time’s flown.

The chair is now empty, layered in dust.

The door remains closed,

tightly sealed

hinges welded with rust.