heard footsteps…boots walkin’ the halls…heavy walkin’…back and forth on hard wood…boards would creak at times…

all day long the old man would stroll up and down the hallway…not sayin’ a word…almost as if he were marchin’ to a beat inside his head…some kinda rhythm from from a fife and drum corps…like he was a Marine or somethin’…’cept no-one was givin’ orders…least none that I could hear…

he’d march up to the front of the hall…then march back to the the other end…turnin’ onna dime…his steps were crisp…gait was clean…nothin’ sloppy…or haphazard ’bout it…just a man steppin’ to a beat…

and he’d carry this American flag in his hands…pole restin’ on his shoulder…but he wouldn’t say a word…just precision in every step…

the man would march till nightfall…clear up till the Sun went down…wouldn’t hear anything up to morning at the crack of dawn…and those boots would hit the floor again…

some men never quit…