[revised a bit]
Old man, I'm talking to you. I am you:
I didn't used to be, no--I used to fly past
on a train. You'd be sitting on a bench
at the station--gray eyes, gray sweater,
a blur of inert age. And I? Well, I
was all tendon-taut, unfraught, lithe,
and smug with youth. Uncouth. I was
on my way to . . . to here, as
it happened, and it's happened.
I'm sitting, situated at the station now,
too, talking to you, old man. Here
comes the rain. Here comes a train.
hans ostrom 2013/2021
