The skin around their eyes, a canyon
She saw them
fishing poles in hand, walking from the sea.
Fingers, gnarled,
crippled with the passing of age.
The skin around their eyes, a canyon
Sunken caverns,
reflecting what youth had told them they would be,
they had not.
Surviving the rough storm of lack,
protected by denial and the idea that
there was still time.
They went inside, leaving their boots and pails
by the door.
The poles on the wall, illegal squid in the icebox.
Under the glass
they were
examined.
