Old Man at Midday

Through a slit in the slats of the wood
By the kitchen stove from where I stood,
He looked no more than a thumb's length tall.
He would not see or hear me if I call.
Among the limp shrubs stunted with the heat he merged,
A scarecrow dressed in rags, dragging
His feet. I seemed to hear as he passed
The gravel crunching, the hiss of dead grass
He bent, perhaps to right a twig, or gather
An old man's poor booty in summer--
Wood to raise as evening's humble fire.
I would never see from where I stood
What fixed his eyes past the sapling grove,
But oh, why in my gut this sudden cold?



May 30, 1988