Old man walking / the 1st poem

This morning I'm looking at a neatly

Scrubbed old man, older than me
At the age I am now,
Dressed in casual summer-wear

Mass-marketed to be indexed as
Conventionally suitable for his age group

Walking by the window east on Bedford.

He’s got white, white hair surrounding a large,
Saint Francis of Assisi bald-plate, a scalp 

Scrubbed so clean it looks to be lacquered.

Little islands of darker skin pigmentations

Are convincing as they dab, almost by design,
Atop his glistening head.

When he gets to the corner of Bedford at Eddy

He pivots on the ball of his right foot 

Like a conscript at bootcamp,— a sharp

Column-left maneuver

And adhering to the strict geometry,

Becomes one with the corner's architecture.

The old-timer's walking briskly, with short,
Crisply measured strides, swinging 
His skinny arms to and fro which are curiously

Bent upward at the elbows, a disturbing physical

Characteristic I've seen before with old men walking.

As he passes through the frame of observation,
I move quickly through the house

To the north facing window to watch him go;

A jaunty gait, a destination purposeful, 

Deep into Eddy, north on Eddy,— down north,

Down north on Eddy and into the black
Hole of his life he knows is waiting there.

 Fall River / 1980s