Flâneur
Something of the faded dandy
hangs about God’s moth-eaten evening coat,
his worn-out cloth-uppers.
He seems to be cruising lost time
in search of fellow flâneurs
who might remember him
from the good old days
before he dyed his hair. He holds out
a threadbare mauve suede glove
as if begging forgiveness
from the crowds of memories
pushing past him in the street.
