“I don’t like modern music,” he said.
“Because drum machines have no soul.”
I looked into the caramel face of this old man
he was not white or black
he was not Spanish or Indian, Middle Eastern or Asian.
His hair white with curly waves
and he had a week’s growth in his face.
His almond eyes were framed in long crows
that spoke of a thousand years
in a storytellers rhyme.
I could see a thousand years
into the history of our future.
They shed tears to the earth
and paid tribute to the ether.
We moved along the beach
and I thought I knew his name.
I remember he whispered it to me once,
but I lost it amid the comings and goings.
In his smile I saw our footprints
leading away from us on the beach.
My set small, waddling between his large,
because up until now I was just learning to walk.