Baggage

You can see him from afar,
made taller by the child
on his shoulders, a smaller version
of himself; another in a carrier
on his back looks like
a wizened old man.

Little dogs gambol about his feet,
with every step threatening to
take him down and bury him in
a flurry of fur and teeth.

Closer, you can see the trolley he
pushes before him,
heavy in the sand;
his grandmother sitting proud,
jabbing with her knitting
needles, punctuating his life.

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