Not a swimmer

A withered old man
stands on his grey front porch
leaning against a hard stone pillar
with his right foot propped up
on a rusty, upside-down bucket

h puffs on his hand-rolled cigarette,
stares at the vacant country road
avoiding the melancholy that he associates
with a late october rain.

his gutters are leaking
the gravel road is flooding
worn memories are rising
under his battered brown hat

he chooses not to embrace
the drowning of his father
when the rain stops
there is more fencing to be mended
more memories overwritten