He was a standing man of
stone. An iron gate fixed into
ground. In his eyes was a
tempest of seriousness.
Hands calloused
from years of grappling with
building and tearing down.
His shadow moved under the
caution of direct intent.
He smiles infrequently, only when
mentioning his son.
He carries a newspaper, his
contact with world events.
A scar on his left cheek and
forearm may be from the war,
though no one asks.
Young men fear him. The elderly
show respect.
Roger Singer 