Wednesday, July 2, 2008


In shy Victoria Park
where the only life now
in decaying October
are dead leaves littering
rusting lawns
and a lone old man
sitting on a despondent bench.

With an old tweed cap
from the Salvation Army
resting like a bad habit
on his wrinkled head
he sits meditating memories
across the horizon
across writhing Lake Ontario.

Watching from the street
I wish like a child
to sit on the lap
of that magnificent old man
with white whiskers
like thinly spread frosting
on his history-worn face
and to listen to the stories

I have heard that old men tell.

-- published in Walking On the Greenhouse Roof
-- Delta Publishing, 1969

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