Whatever fibers of good health
are left, cling to his head:
silver white against pale white skin.
His joints may hurt,
but he follows the common procedure:
Stand up, sit down, kneel.
Stand up, sit down, kneel.
And to make matters
worse, he has no one beside him, only
the edge of the old, oak pew
where he rests his aching right shoulder.
I may tap my brown boat shoes
feverishly if the man in the oversized
frock paces himself too slowly at the close,
or I may complain of shooting
fireworks in my tender right knee
during elongated expositions, but this man
still continues to
stand up, sit down, kneel
in the narrow, lonely pew,
and I know that I can no longer complain.
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