Here is the man

Here is the man

Whose old parade of memory 

Still haunts his broken knuckle

Here is the man

Who moves with the vulgarity

Of an old desperado’s final breath

Set to the song of a grasswhistle

And the drumming of scorching dirt

Here is the man

Naked, alone, again,

Lying around with half your ghost 

On a hard rag cot

The smell of starched sheets

Full with your beautiful laughter

and quiet sorrow

From the day before

and Your prayers 

for a life