as a buoy.
Every wave that passes
fogs up his glasses.
Arms flapping

as a bird. Everything
he says is slurred.
Legs swinging back and
forth, all the way from south

till toes pointed north.
Fingers strumming
his armchair. And that stare
hanging in the air

like smoke
from a cigar inside
a tight lid jar. I remember
September, I lost him
in a tremor.