THE EXILE

His body wrapped in a blue overcoat, extra wide;
his tie neatly tied, and his hair tousled by the
afternoon wind, the man strolls alone, through a gray city,
picking at the pale cigarettes and wax matches in his pockets.
He takes a seat in the cafes, and drinks much; maybe reads
a newspaper without interest, while he glances around and ideas prowl about him
strange ones almost always. He speaks, perhaps, with someone, for a moment,
but his forced smile seems missing. He leaves suddenly,
and walking, arrives at taverns or clubs of a lower order,
where again he drinks, and soon in the midst of lewd music
is intoxicated by an immature skin that doesn't strain the eyes.
(Sweet flowered body, soft beginning where grace resides).
Later a few words. And half-hidden dates, now or tomorrow.
Just at night fall; with too much alcohol and tobacco smoke
clinging to his hands, he will open the door to a cold floor,
hesitant, with books and papers in disarray and empty bottles.
And there, tumbled onto a sofa before falling asleep—listening to the violas
of Rameau in the air—that man alone with feel the tears run down.
He has seen approaching him at last (today too) the impossible Angel that will save him.