man, though old

In the evenings, with the sun behind, 

you dawdle,

your old boots, assets.

Your hairline a wayside

for a worried head,

in the shape of a W

and

words have lost their meaning since the last time we’ve spoken.

Life is, well, rain now. Telling how we were—

weeding

in Montauk and that worn woolen chair. Father,

and the handsome uniform

you wore

had still, 

a window of sound

advice.