Aged

I rush home early to attend back to school night.
Gradually, I realize that I am surrounded by elderly men who are long beyond retirement age.They have lost their purpose but not their habits.  These worn warriors cling to their battered briefcases like shields as they wander slowly to and from work. They have cloth handkerchiefs tucked in their pockets and a copy of the Wall Street Journal folded crisply under their arms.These men surely rise before dawn, awakened by old dreams and fears that still linger.  They arrive early to the small, musty spaces held aside for them, often a long fall from their once grander offices, to attend to their personal affairs.  They befriend fellow commuters to pass the time.  They take long lunches with old colleagues and scribble notes onto yellowed legal pads for no one in particular to read. Their computers sit unused, mysterious office statuary.  They observe the niceties of a bygone era – and the not-so niceties as well.
These are the aging titans of the Street whose human frailty now shows on their ancient faces.
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