Old Sluggish

He shuffled along the streets,

A ratty old brown coat over his shoulders.

Chin, covered in scruffy fuzz.

A tattered old hat,

atop his head.

 

They called him Old Sluggish.

For that was what he was,

sluggish.

He spoke slow,

as if he pinched his tongue.

His gait was no faster than a tortoise.

 

Old Sluggish would come,

when the kitchen bell rang.

Strangers gave him food,

his drink provided by generosity.

He had no home,

ever.

No parents, no wife,

no children.

Old Sluggish roamed the streets,

like a scrounging ant.

 

He was kind,

but stern.

The children ran away,

then came back.

Sometimes taunting,

mostly to stare.

Old Sluggish didn’t care.

He roamed the streets,

his streets.

For Old Sluggish was his name.

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