1971
Poetry
by Michael F. Nyiri
The Cane But Touches the Cement
Wrinkled old white-haired rumple-suited
Man standing on the streetcorner
Waiting for a bus.
His tie is tied wrong.
His glasses are crooked.
He's a streetlamp by the roadside
A blade of grass on a hill
A tree in the forest
A spectre
Yet he's alive
And no one knows it.
Looking out at a world he's seen age.
Who knows what goes on in his head?
Where did his life go so quickly
For men to reason he's
Just part of the scenery?
And he is -
Simply a hitching post
For eyes to rest on but a moment
Then fleetingly move to another subject.
The bus comes and he disappears forever.
copyright 2001 by Michael F. Nyiri
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