They call him the watchman,
caretaker of night air within a fenced
area at the lower lip of town.
He walks slowly with a slight limp, checking
locked doors, marking the time, scuffing
in black untied boots on paths he made.
His eyes are sad, malaise filled like curtains
almost closed, leaving a slight crease
as he watches his steps.
Morning light signals his reprieve.
He locks the gate, walking up familiar roads
to his home where the doors are never locked.
Roger Singer 