Snakes

The old man carries a forked stick,
"for snakes" he says,
though its years since any of us saw one.

He rasps a corky hand on cheeks
                             like cuttlebones;

as white, as hard, every bit as discarded
on the beach of his face,
 
and flicks the V of the stick
at a place out at sea,
which looks to me
like a ship, but which is in fact a barge
                                    listing in mimicry, 
of his frame collapsed
into snakeless years because they’ve been

          the hardest.

You take his hand,
like you’ve plucked a pine cone


from filthy sand
and are about to throw it out to sea
but have stopped
at the last moment


weighing its lightness, and thinking,
turning his hand over like a coin.

You don’t bite to check it’s tender,
but it looks like you will.

You're torturing an old man
with friendship withheld
as snakes drag their hungry bellies
away from the sea,
and the barge gives way
to the waves.