Like clockwork each day
Near the edge
Of the bay
A little old man arrives
He sits down in the grass
Watches boaters fly past
And fishers go on
With their lives

All around the people
Rush about in a hurry
Without a word or even
A stare
To a man with scarred skin
Papered over weak bone
Deep wrinkles
And snowy white hair

His name is James
Though I’m sure you don’t care
But once was a time it meant something
Somewhere
The war has been won
History left it behind
Yet it continues to play
Inside of James’ mind