Loose pigeons scatter
Like the tea leaves
In the old man’s milky swill;
The train station brunch
And the single salty tear,
Children leaving home
And the stale chocolate muffin,
The deep lines in his face,
All well thumbed pages
In a thick and frantic book
That’s just this minute started
To slowly flutter to a stutter of calm;
Once chewed fingernails
All soft now and smooth,
Ageing hands all poems
And newsprint,
Sat where the epilogue sings.
