One foot drags.
He shuffles forward on the right
and pulls the left even with it
in a shuffle/scrape...shuffle/scrape rhythm.
At half past midnight it has cooled
and a breeze
blows up from the Harbor,
but it is still hot --
sweat lays on the skin
like a protective film.
In a black suit more appropriate
for November, long-sleeved white shirt,
and a tie many years out of style
he struggles,
two full suitcases on each shoulder,
shuffle/scrape -- shuffle/scrape,
for ten paces.
He rests, sets down the cases,
straightens,
and picks them up again for another
ten steps.
Over again he repeats
shuffle/scrape -- shuffle/scrape
rest.
He reaches the steps of a church
at the north end of the Village.
Laboriously the bags are hefted
two steps ahead.
He steadies himself against the railing,
raises the right foot to the first
step and pulls up the left one.
There are lights
only on the church facade,
yet he continues to strain
one step at a time
to the next level. |
