The old man has mastered
the art of parallel living:
he is ten years old in
the droning heat of July 1940,
as he waits under the 'Don't Walk' sign.

He knows all about time travel,
how to portal between
the checkout counter at Walmart
and the fishing boat his father ran
on the coastal waterway.

The tremor you see on his lip
is what's left of the joke he told
his friends on the riverbank
that afternoon in '48.

They were bronzed from the summer's days,
butting each other like goats, hard of muscle,
careless in their daring. They looked no farther
than tomorrow, could not imagine a day when
kneeling to tie a shoe required some planning.

The hands that clutch the wheelchair's rims
are calloused, blue-veined and brown.
The eyes squint against the long, slow sun.
'Don't Walk' says the sign.