An old man forgets things, leaves
his wallet on the bus,
his hearing aid in a café, his
cap at a bookshop, his life
falls behind in a fog of
confusing memories, and all the fuss
upsets him, his wife, the people
who gather—as when a knife
suddenly thwangs into a target
and everyone shudders:
what is this all about? Who threw
it? She
stares out into the darkness of
the arena, her shoulders
trembling but unhurt, and wonders
is it he
who once came courting in the
early spring
or another, some white-haired,
grey-eyed fool,
a stalker at the end of
days. Now everything
resembles empty
speculations—cruel
hopes and aspirations—and all
forgotten.
He takes aim one last time, but
all is rotten.
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