No Oneís Fool

My statue should be
weathered and dark,
a listening figure
in an old worn coat,
seated and looking down.

Give me a book,
leave it open and heavy
in my lap, held fast
by arthritic thumbs.

On my shoulder
place a raucous bird,
a crow that finds
me amusing.

Make a good thing
of my shoes,
a record of the miles.

Include a cane
at your discretion:
I might need one
as time goes by.

Glasses on my nose
and too much hair,
a temperamental beard
that seems to grow.

Let the world know
I was glad to be alone,
and no oneís fool
except my own.

May 9, 2006

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