Retirement Guy

 

On his final day of paid employment, 
Wilfred P. Bucklethorpe donned his blue suit,
plaid tie, 
and shiny black loafers; 
took the #42 Islington bus downtown
to his corporate office building
and patiently greeted his co-workers
 who wanted to make a fuss.

On the bus ride, 
he'd gazed out the window 
at scenes he wouldn't be seeing again.
He felt an odd ache in his chest
almost like nostalgia.

He daydreamed about his imminent freedom,
years of leisure stretching before him.
He had no hobbies,
no wife,
no kids,
not even a dog.

At the office, he did no work,
he spoke to colleagues; made plans to meet up -
knowing full well that he'd never see any of them again,
because that's just the way things go.
Anyway, golfing had never appealed to him.

There was a party at the end of the day.
False bonhomie and drunkenness ensued.
A gift of miniature golden handcuffs was given -
to be worn on a lapel.
A plaque mentioned years of service.

He left early and took the bus home.
Everyone was relieved to see him go.
He was no longer relevant.
He wouldn't be missed by anyone
other than the caretaker, 
to whom he'd been kind.

At 8 in the morning 
of his first day without a job...
He crawled out of bed, aching.
The day stretched before him 
with no tasks to be done.

He thought of the lonely years ahead.
Considered taking up a hobby -
leaning to play a harpsichord,
perhaps...or a language.
Travel didn't really pique his interest.

He had an epiphany around lunchtime:
he had no interests outside of work.
He had time on his hands.
Too much time.
And he was forlorn...
Maybe he should get a cat.

The pain in his chest 
was becoming worrisome.
Should he see a doctor?
It seemed to be too much trouble.
Perhaps, he should just rest in bed?

At 4pm, Wilfred P. Bucklethorpe
dressed in sweatpants and trainers
and headed off to get food.
It was drizzling and chilly,
not summer weather at all.

As he approached a brightly lit supermarket,
his aching chest started throbbing -
the strangest sensation.
He glanced down at his shoes
and
as his head tipped forward,
the rest of his body followed suit and
the world before his eyes
faded to black.

Wilfred P. Bucklethorpe lay dead on the cold, wet pavement.
Alone.
He had nothing left to do.
He'd made no plans for the future.
He'd never followed his dreams.

Some folks are late bloomers.
 Some are seeds that never sprouted.

©Ellen Pepper 2026

image: dreamstime.com