The sky is crumbling into millions of paper dots <br />the wind blows in my face <br />so I duck into my favorite barber shop <br />and listen to Vivaldi and look in the mirror <br />reflecting the shopfront windows, Broadway <br />and 104th, and watch the dots blown by the wind <br />blow into the faces of the walkers outside <br />& here comes a thin old man swaddled in scarves, <br />he must be seventy-five, walking slowly, <br />and in his mind there is a young man dancing, <br />maybe seventeen years old, on a June evening -- <br />he is that young man, I can tell, watching him walk<br /><br />David Lehman<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/january-31-the-sky-is-crumbling/
