the fading ink

you remember
the ink
on your fingers
tossing papers
like batons
onto the porches
of your streets.
that netherworld
of time, neither
dark or light,
the squeaking
wheel of your wagon.
your dog
behind you, stopping
when you stop,
walking when
you walk.
the ink was black
and smudged.
the newsprint,
the words
coming off onto
your cold fingers.
sometimes you look
down at your
hands, even now
and expect to see
it again, as you
expect sometimes
to be young
once more as well.