Old Men

They are the raw, monotonous skies,
The faded placards and iron rails
Passed by in narrow streets of rain.
Theirs are the indistinct thin cries
Heard in a long sleep that fails
In strange confusion and numb pain.

But old men have their deep dreams
They follow on quiet afternoons
At intervals, through distant streets.
Their lives come near them in warm streams
Of tonic hope. And orange moons
Shine magically on stark defeats.