Tuesday, January 10, 2017


His grooming strikes you 
the way a green golf course in winter 
calls out 
for a long long 

His love of it speaks
no words, 
there’s a shyness in him 
toward the art 
though he entered the world 
its schemes.

Even when the nurse wheels 
him to dinner, 
you must look at the man 
with waves of white hair 
in the knobby whelk sweater, 
those dark eyes open and blank 
as a mounted stag, 
but my oh my, 
what class, what rank.