Zodiac

The man removes a pencil from his pocket.

He stares at the long chain of random symbols,

But his eyes are not what they used to be.

He scribbles with his pencil, trying to solve the daily cryptogram,

But his hands are wrinkled, weaker than forty years past.

The job at the plant kept his mind at work,

But now as a retired, food-stamp senior all life is gone.

He rises from his wooden kitchen chair,

But his knees pulsate in pain.

It was like yesterday when he ran all night for miles,

Away from the bloody car and the public telephones.

He had spent his younger nights in this very kitchen

Drafting new letters for police officers now long dead.

He smiled at the thought of his last code,

Never solved, never forgotten.

Staring at the newspaper, the pencil rises once more.

Slowly, he makes a sloppy circle

Adorned with a cross in the middle.

With a smile, he draws a "Z"

"Oh, the good old times," he chuckles.