Watching

Hunched forward, he sits on a wooden bench

newly placed when they widened the road

an old white sun hat on his head

cricket style

and long sleeves against the sun

In front he clasps his walking stick

in both hands 

like a standard

or a sword to lean upon

In his eyes is the light of eighty summers

and eighty winters

And what does he think?

Maybe nothing

Maybe he knows 

that all the thoughts have been thought

and all the feelings felt

and what remains is the ocean

relentlessly rising and falling

a power that no one controls

and the sand that churns and grinds

the perpetual motion of the waves

Driving to Laurieton, April 2026