At low tide

the habits of the sands 

continue

tapping out the time

ably at ease

he wonders if the revolution will come

Distracted by a beam of light

the crowd walk on

needlessly

..6....7....8..

after the joy

like us all 

the flat stone sinks

In its own time

being very still 

the coffee grows cold

Lost in thought

the dancer waits 

to be paid

Naughty boys

long since gone

running away from the parkie