“Sir, can I help? 

You seem tad bit distressed. 

Why, you’ve been sitting on that bench

Far more than anyone else;

For whom do you wait?”

The wrinkled, old man, 

Waiting on the bus stand

Surprised by the voice of a gentleman, 

Looks up with a soft and tired gaze:

“A wisp 

Of my angel’s voice


The Devil’s quiet. 

And now, I await 

Her return. 

‘Cause she told me

Not to believe 

What we see

On the telly.”

The young man, bewildered,

Takes the Grey 

For a loon hinderance. 

” Come, sit here. 

And I’ll tell ye

All my sister told me.”

A patient hand

Although trembled, 

Yet the soft whispers 

Danced, unshakable. 

“She made me swear

To wait right here.  

For the rides in the fair, 

We had to go and share. 

So, I waited 

For her to return 

From her red, cumbersome building. 

Y’see, I waited for her

For three days and two nights: 


Until they said

Some rubbish on their T.V.,

‘Small life crushed

In a killing spree.’

But, no; 

I still wait for her touch. 

Because she told me

Not to believe 

What’s on T.V..”

The old man looks on the ground,  

Whilst a helpless tear falls down. 

“No, I don’t believe 

What’s on T.V. ….”





Deniability: man’s best friend