The painter sat watching the world go by
He watched the people and gazed at the sky
So relaxed he observed the busy little street
The children running with their little feet
The dogs pooing in the middle of the road
Embarrassed owners red faced and shroud

He sat and sat for days on end
He never painted
Not a penny did he spend
He brought his own coffee
And perched on the bench
Next to the cafe of a horrible wench
She threw her cigarettes into the street
Which were swept up by the dragging feet

The weather would change
But his routine would not
In the blistering storm
In an anarak he’d stop
Wipe the seat down and take a pew
Observe in slow motion, kind yet subdewed