One Way to Sydney

15 Nov

The old man rises from his bench at the Acadian Lines depot in Truro,

pulls his pant legs off his thighs,

and manages to stand briefly in an effigy of strength

before he begins to slowly teeter,

swaying back and forth from the ankles

like a sheaf of frost-burnt wheat,

like a dying volt meter,

like the tail of a tired dog, wagging,

like an antenna on a wrecked car,

like an uncertain gesture

made to a stranger,

like a wave good-bye.

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