In every neighborhood bar, there is
always one; comes in, old and alone,
orders an oddly familiar drink and
sits watching T.V. with rheumy eyes.
And (likely) disinterest in all about him.
Approached, he will talk—maybe even
crack a joke— but seems just fine to do
without any conversation at all.
No affront is taken if he goes unnoticed;
long ago realizing he has begun to fade.
So his clothes denote; drab, gray, khaki.
At home in his gradual disappearance, it
may be that he only comes in to test how
much has been erased since the last time.
It may be the oft repeated stories are but a
conscious constant by which, vis-a-vis, he
may adduce how further down he’s dug.
poetastrophy 