THE CORNER OF THE OLD MAN'S DYING (POEM)

                          Time Passing                        
(The Corner of the Old Man's Dying)
                              by Dean Metcalf
                                     ©1970, 2013


As I was swingin' down the street
ebullient, bloody-knuckled, easy
I elbowed past an old man,
bent over his cane, eyes rolled
to peer from beneath his hatbrim,
shuffling toward whatever it was
I hurried toward.

Now, nothing in my swagger
should have let that old man speak to me.

But something in his stumbling
screamed at me:

as I was striding by
a tiny blue-flamed glance
flickered from his eye

(his whole life had
     shriveled to a mote there)

and that glance visited the room
next door to the room where words
are born, then heliarced itself
from his brain to mine
saying something that,
had it passed through
the room where words are born,
would have been this:

"I see,
in your striding,
the man I was.

Do you see
who you'll be
in my shuffle?"