I am that bent man in the long raincoat,
with a bagged bottle, my red antidote:
I am stick-led past the bar lessee,
still struck by his loss of an apostrophe;
in there a couple, I fished from reflections,
looked me just once, then resumed conversation.
I crossed shone tarmac onto grey matt stone,
that moment I gripped, not quite alone:
In the small park under rain-weighted trees,
I found my own place below the bent canopy,
with shelter from the worst, poor-afforded below,
I turned into an old man, and walked home alone.