I'm much the worse for wear, it's double true.
Too many incidents
a man might misconstrue—
my conduct, for a lack of innocence.
I seem to get them crazed or lacking sense
in the first place.
Ancient, solid gents
I sit by on the bus because they're safe,
get me coming, going, with their canes,
or what is worse,
the spreading stains
across the seat. I recognize at once
just what they're up to, rustling in their coats.
There was a priest,
the calmer sort,
his cassock flowing down from neck to feet.
We got to talking, and I brushed his knee
by accident,
and dutifully,
he took my hand and put it back
not quite where it belonged; his judgment
was not that exact.
I underwent
a kind of odd conversion from his act.
They do call minds like mine one-track.
One track is all you need
to understand
their loneliness, then bite the hand that feeds
upon you, in a terrible blind grief.
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