There’s a watchman, tired and vain.
Hair slicked back, eyes without depth and
nervous hands; he proudly sports a
flowered shirt.
He smiles at the moon, knowing he
will never make it to the sky and back.
He owns a wrecking ball for the future.
Dreams slip out of his room before
sunrise. He knows just how far he can
walk; age greets him with a frown.
His rooms are in order. Two eggs for
breakfast and dry toast.
There’s dirt to move for the garden.
Plants provide for a newness around him.
Roger Singer 