Kyphotic and aged

By Garland Davis

As I neared the old sailor, he stood kyphotic

and showed his age and many years before the mast.

Perhaps he saw my dress blues and the jaunty

white hat as I walked toward with a seaman’s roll.

Over pizza and beer, discomfort ran in background

mode while we talked of ships and wars, beers and

girls, laughed at the stories and cried for those

shipmates who had already gone on before us.

But by midnights approach everything said and

nothing said as we stood, unease swelled to dread.

As separation and departure approached, my stride

beside his shuffle, left no more a print than his.

We reached the Old Sailor’s Home and turned to

say our farewells. We hugged on the street, the

thin weight of his nearness against my chest.

As though warned, I tried not to look back.

See ya next time Dad.