Six and One Madison Meter
An old man sits on his front porch Nursing a Milwaukee’s Best; he thinks idly About cinnamon gum and a Ford Falcon he sold years ago. On his radio the Tigers are down six to one. The beer in the can is still pretty cold for such a hot day. Across the street, the neighbor kids have found out That playing dead to the dog makes her nip. They find this amusing. The old man, Whose liver-spotted hands were once tan and solid, Whose clear eyes inevitably gave way to a milky layer, Whose mind lags slightly when the topic moves from politics to riddles, And who perhaps doesn’t trust the rising price per pound of bananas, Surveys the late afternoon light. There’s an old man In all of us Who sits on a porch and holds fast to the old days, Who will outgrow the fears and set down the grudges, Who will know when it’s time to fold a hand. There’s also a child, who plays dead for fun. There’s a dog who can’t tell the difference. There’s a half-drunk can of beer on a hot day, And the Tigers always down six to one.
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