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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