the grit from his fingers
leaving gray on his face
a misplaced shell
on which his daughter's once played
in the denim hole now
in his retreating tide
the glowing sphere burns low but high
on his salty brow
a phosphorescent disk illuminating the beads on his legs
running into the dampened cuff
his spiraled life highway
of straight metal on a track
kissed by the leather upper
of a shoe worn flat
