portrait 1

the old man is pain. his feet were cut in half, taped up picked out slapped over and over again on concrete, and his wild eyes sweetly dimmed under his frazzled white hair, his straight gray beret. pantlegs rolled up ankle-high his cane taps along with birdcalls, filling in the spaces aiding its movements, he looked up branchwise scanning a small pan of strawberry gully, creak frizzled by tight whiteknuckled hands hanging off a moldy lenient trunk. he wasn't moving, engrossed limb by senses to the leaves. tap. tap. tap.