Turn to the light, old man,
I want to see your face.
Behind you in the pension queue
I thought I knew you.
Slowly,
starting from the top,
I saw your hair,
thin and carefully laundered,
grey with a hint of rectitude;
your raincoat, worn but clean,
was buttoned, left over right,
preserving you from risk.
Asked what you owned in all the world
I knew, I knew -
Barclay card, sterodent, a folded handkerchief,
too much, too little time - until
I saw you held your dreams
clenched holster-high in dry, arthritic hand;
your parched mind drifted into cactus land,
your shuffling feet thrust deep in blazing stirrups,
and with an odd jerk of your head
you aimed 300 pages of that one-eyed, dog-eared book
(‘Alias Butch Cassidy’)
dead
at the man behind the grille....
Before the five-starred sheriff comes,
before they run you in,
before the night,
turn to the light, old man;
I want to see your face.
(September,
1985)
