He looked like a dried up plum; he was old.
He had skin the teint of leather —
He was a leathery plumb. His teeth,
The color of iron, contained it too,
And a few of them went missing
When he grinned.
What possibilities could this husk,
This carcass of a living man
Contain? His sagging skin hung
Over sagging cloth; besides
The deep air he was continously drawing into two
Deflated wine-sacks
Above the barrel of his belly,
The only other sign
Of life in the man,
Of any intelligence or spirit
Was not that stupid grin,
Spreading out like a city-block
After a bomb-raid, but the way his eyes
Rolled under his skull like marbles,
Poising themselves on any object in the room
They might happen to fancy, me
For instance.
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