the old man is gone,
he is probably dead.
his store barely a store,
more a shanty on broadway
among stores with doors;
his was an alley with a tin roof
squeezed between two pre-war buildings.
fruits and vegetables already stack
christmas tangerines at its mouth.
as though they feared emptiness.
a while ago, he also left, but returned,
gaunt, head shaven, revealing large ears,
continued selling used books, used hats,
used blouses, african masks, little rugs
laid out on the sidewalk or hung
from a torn awning. the store nameless
and numberless. he sat at the curb,
chair backwards, leaning forward,
aware, but looking inward, alone,
in all likelihood with ghosts,
the gaunt of wwii camp photographs,
seeing, it seems, the unavoidable
rd colman