One year on. The same man
In similar clothes, if a bit warn
Like his face, his smile
Crinkles round tired eyes
As though more thoughts crowd behind
Than there used to be.
Laughter? Not so many
Not so much drained as conserved
Left in glass jars for a rainy day
Or an eartquake to shatter tranquil medium.

One minute on. Glancing at a watch
Black matte plastic and scratched window
Ticking away the countdown of life
Solid, reliable; the man he wanted to be
There's more money jingling in pockets
And more cares jumbled in his head
But he's the same man. Similar at least.