I
On Washington’s sidewalks youths gather
Eager for a sunlit drunk.
Jeering whites pass in shining cars.
I hear them hooting—a poor fish bent to their ridicule.
Was I always such a figure of fun?
I walk on, gray-thatched, my absurdity confirmed
An old man condemned for nonconformity
I was never one of them—sweet victory.
II
A March sky blossoms overhead
Bearing clouds Canaletto might have envied.
Below, youths clot my sidewalks like cattle,
Eager for a sunlit drunk.
The saint’s grown a Circe, I guess,
Youth will have no book but ignorance
And wears Corruption like a badge.
Jeering whites pass in cars,
Choose me for their scorn.
In all my vanity I had not guessed
I wore such quality.