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.