The old man looked up
into the rain-swollen, cloud-broken, time-tossed
sky.
Sitting down again on the park bench
smoothed by a million previous
lonely, plump backsides-smoking a joint,
thinking of a riotous past he stared
at his memories-

a jocund boy, a quiet teenager privately lusting,
years like trailing smoke-
a husband, family man his worries growing into
deep-set wrinkles fashioned on nothing-
the sun leaning on him, the moon smiling cynically,
as he dwindled into dust.

Who did he make love to? Why did he? Why did
he bother? the thick bloated flames of fickle *****
and trophies for his mind.
Nothing in the shaded recess, nothing looms,
in his pirate's, crow's, magpie's soul-
an old man in his final hour
beating around for husks.