eventide
he is custard-suited, sun-seated, on
the promenade-smiled bench.
oh,
these newspaper days. when he can say
that he has seen it all before and lived
to tell the tale. to tell it to the breeze
that brings the tears that dry as
quick as they are cheek-borne.
how this late summer is to be savoured,
just beyond his flaky fingers
that lean upon his silver cane,
to tip the day bonsoir, au revoir;
tomorrow will be straw-boated
once again,
and the sun will shine.
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