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.

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