Comes late at night,
Too fatigued to fight,
A corrugated face, and hoarse voice,
Was surely not his choice?

Lays back after a shower,
Then starts to clamor,
Night till dawn,
Till the old owls mourn.

Like a train without breaks,
loaded with the stories he makes,
Goes on and on,
Till the wheels are worn.

Your awareness will wander,
When listnening to tale so somber,
Stop him while he speaks,
Or wait till he finally eats :

'Stop' said I,
And he asks me 'why'?
'Do you not realize the legnth of your voice'?
'Ah, but it is not my choice'!
 
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