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This poem is taken from PN Review 176, Volume 33 Number 6, July - August 2007.

Three Poems Peter Gilmour

Old Man

This fumbling on the threshold for his key
Is new. It is not drink or depression,
He assures me. Sometimes he drops the key
And can hardly pick it up. Shadows come,
Born as of pain, as he struggles there:
You can see them claiming him, one by one.

Especially when he gets the key to work -
Pure chance, like whether he will see next spring -
He laughs at himself, his laugh like an arc
Over gravely darkening continents,
And turns towards the street to wave and smile
For always there is someone there, watching.

I see him now as though on a platform
Across from mine, looking through the windows
Of a passing train, from light to dark,

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