Its color sat somewhere on the spectrum between brown and gray (Such things being dependent on vagaries of the light, And the perspective of the beholder)
Even if he was not recognizable in an instant (As who is he was—no, is—and what he has done Has only deepened in impact and import over time) There is still the bearing, the certain set of the jaw,
It is decommissioned, off-limits, outright verboten, Yet is traversed nonetheless, Its patrons a mix of the pruriently curious, The thrill-seeker, the merely woebegone.
It is undeniable, when in the embrace of the great pipe organ At the venerable old Episcopal church on Third Street, Or wholly encircled by Tiffany-issue stained glass
We do not, perhaps, expect the very sky To descend upon us, all chunks and wedges As it did upon the simple, deluded chick
Bovine-like, we shall meet our deaths (Such is the scythe the reaper wields) No matter that the final breaths
One quickly learns to fall and roll, (The pratfall is his stock in trade) But hard surfaces take their toll,