He used to stand at the chalkboard

He used to stand at the chalkboard

like a cliff face, looming over 1942.

Today he is at the Shell station,

his fingers fumbling a plastic tab,

the coffee spilling a brown map

across the counter.

His jacket cuffs are frayed and white

with the salt of a dozen winters.

He is looking for his keys in the slush,

bending at a hinge that seems

ready to snap.

I stay in my car.

I cannot help a man who is suddenly

only the size of his own breath.