A bent little man
in a black surreal trenchcoat
follows me nights
through Washington Square
past the warm brothers
and by the late dogs
I have never seen him
for he is fleet
looking over my shoulder
I sense him dash
to my blind side
He has a voice like Woody Allen
and mumbles dismal folksongs
I’m quite certain
though I have never heard him
Each night
as I pass the empty fountain
where kids in July
splash in their innocent underpants
I step up my pace
to elude again
the stroke of his ridiculous scythe.
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