That old man
sporting a flop-tilted cowboy hat,
trenchcoat belt hanging,
leaning on his ancient cane-yielding wife
with one gnarly hand
and his own wood-worn cane in the other,
making his wobbly way across
the wet Gardiner bricks
Why, is he that same
little boy who ran and ran from
school’s out to suppertime, with
no thoughts of feeble dependence
on others, on the contraptions of age?
I wonder:
Does he run in his fitful dreams?
No comments:
Post a Comment