Old man's foot

Old timer sat at the table,
scratching his teacup
with a counting-down expression;
a demonstration having
lifted itself above the
plain of narrative.
Sort of like counting
down to an explosion,
but doing it with a
serious seriousness.
With more substance
in his face, than in
his gaze - unlocking human
maps - as if from the depth
of a deep well, he saw himself
inside his own shadow,
trailing eternally, to
existence, trying hard enough
to be, where he was.
Old man, who I
did not know, made me sad,
made me want to subtract
my age from his; his regressions
from mine, and arrive
at a convenient supposition:
like his foot, slept just
as much as mine.