I notice the way he moves
The way he sways

The way he eddies around his cane
Like a yappy dog in battle.

The way he touches the hand of a child
As a plastic plane is drawn
And smiles exchanged for a wayward...papery grin.

The way his skin
Licks up the madness from the sun's glaze
And eyes that have died and cried

A thousand ..different sorrows.

I notice the kind of his smile
And the wise of his heart
The holes in his boots that have journeyed past

Three or more..of my lifetimes.

I notice the cold; stale shell of his bones
That stench of ungodly breath

Yet am touched by the warmth
That preserves him.

© Deborah Gordon 2008

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