old looking,
sits on a damp
park bench,
scatters
broken and crushed
saltines
with great gnarled hands,
boxers hands,
huge .
The small
brown birds
swoop and jump
thankful for
an easy meal.
Their gibberish
like
jealous little sister
protesting brothers
bedtime hour.
A punch drunk
smile spreads across
the thick chested
man's face.
He is transported
to days before
smelly gyms
and the soft thuds
of overworked heavy bags.
To years before
his first kiss
of mildewed canvas.
Back to days
at the park with
his immigrant
grandfather
casting breadcrumbs
carelessly on
warm summer afternoons.
