Putting Walter Mitty On Some Poor Soul

He walked down the beach
Nothing but cool.
Who wears a straw hat,
No shirt,
Shoulders pulled back,
Ribs still showing
At seventy something.
He had a strut,
The kind of confidence,
The kind that said,
“I’m not a person to be trifled with.”
His face was a smile,
The kind that is more eff you
Than I’m happy,
But he could pull it off
Because his aura was just the cool.

I thought gangster or cop.
He could have been walking a beat,
But he had too much glide in his stride,
Had he been a cop,
He would have been more burly,
More confrontation,
More begging for something to happen.
This old guy looked as if he had been looking
For his whole life,
He barely moved his head and saw everything
Then I noticed his hands,
The left looked as if it had been tucked in a pocket,
Fingers only on the inside, thumb out,
A sign his cronies would have known.
His right hand was cocked, looking like a gun,
Thumb as the hammer, index finger the barrel,
Middle finger keeping time with his stride
Tapping an imaginary trigger, ready to apply some heat.

He just smiled as he walked.
Taking in all in.
Cool as could be.
Hell, he was probably a teacher or something.

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