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 at you.
What possibilities could this
Husk, this carcass of a man
Contain? His skin sagged
Over sagging jeans;
Besides the deep air he was spilling
Into those leaky wine-sacks
By the barrel of his belly,
The only other sign
Of any spirit was —
Not that stupid grin
He'd slapped on his face
Like a block hit by a
Bomb — but the way his eyes
Would roll from side
To side in his skull,
Like marbles glancing off any
Object they encountered
Or that fancy chanced — on me
For instance.
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