Dandelion

The park bench is his home

Cornsilk hair a fluffy puff

In his hands, always some tome

He acts as he is; delicate, the least tough

A scholar, he is at heart

A heart of gold, has he

But none will take the part

Of sitting with the man so wee

And so he remains, lone in his respite

He will stay there indefinitely, till his hair falls, grown white