The old man
Writes with a fountain pen
Handsome blue copperplate
Lacing its way
Across a tiny notebook
Age and intent hovering.
Paper-thin skin
Masks his handsome cheekbones
And pinches the sandy eyes
That peer out across the carriage:
He squints like a beautiful lizard
Worn against the morning sun.
His peaked cap
Hides a smile
His steady craft
Invokes an ancient rhyme:
Suspended in time
With the soft flow of survival.
Gar Jones: January 2017