At dusk, his steps are rough,
with a dry grace of
flat-footed tenderness;
the spring is gone,
& forward is the march.

In the grinning breeze he stops,
faces the pressure, feels it, leans in,
pressing into the airy opposition:
the force, that strength of Time
which faces him
along the winding red walkway bricks
of the harbor.

In time, some bench may call &,
sitting down, he will face the sea, watching
the terns & spins of the gulls
as they follow the ships
to feast on ready meals,
tossed by the time-tossed,
up to
the welcoming wind.


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