January The Thirteenth

The Walk Home

AS one grows older and Caesar, Hitler,
Lear, and the salesman are bundled off one by one,
It is hard to sustain discomposure. The files thicken.
'Leaves,' says the poet, 'grass, and birds of the field,'
Conjuring up a glass and a good book
On some green hill
Where nobody bears or cares more than old care will.

Who's in, who's out - such words harden
In bronze or plastic; pipes and slippers
Move to their destined places, swords to theirs;
And one walking home at dusk with the evening paper
Thinks with erosive irreverence that perhaps
He should let his subscription to that sheet lapse.

What, then, would the world do? As swords clased
Under the sun, and Prince Hall and Sir Winston
Triumphed on all continents, would then the word
Sweep the ranks that one watching watched no longer?
As he closed his eyes to all but his own thin theme,
Would the world then oblige, age and dream his dream?

Dreams. Dream. And still dream. And leave not a wrack.
As one grows older
Plato's, Bottom's and all such country rouses
Thicken the files with the rest;
And walking home at dusk with the sages, age
Thinks no more than age must always think: -
The world doesn't oblige, and old pipes stink.

- REED WHITTEMORE