Hand pressed
against the back of the forward seat
Wrinkled, aging, still
a power, a purpose in the motion
You gaze
Rodin's inspiration
Eyes
like furniture in an empty house
"To protect, to prevent
To preserve!"
From underneath, Gatsby warms
The sight is familiar
To a flaw
And the beauty I saw
Floated past your view
A veteran, an assembly line
Eyes
that declare: an account for 60 years
Eyes
(which look away)
that have seen the world
Or at least a fragment
Concerning Rousseau's quarrel,
his rival:
Have the days been
nasty, brutish, short?
For all your brilliance
Is it so?
You keep your silence, huddled
To keep yourself warm
On a worn, wandering bench
Frequented by countless others
Before.
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