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.


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