Old Man (JCH
-- 1992)
He was a writer,
a poet,
a wise old man
with gray hair
and a full beard.
He came in here
often
to get milk
and talk shit with
me.
He had been places;
he protested the
war
and marched on
D.C. in ‘63.
He practiced Zen
and had a Harley
parked
in his garage.
They said he even
had
a marijuana patch
in the woods
behind his house.
He spoke softly
and was always
pleasant.
Saw in the paper
yesterday
the old man is
nowhere to be found.
He was last seen
walking
the old highway.
With a wink and
a smile,
he was gone;
he ascended into
the sky.
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