Portrait of a Man in Argyle Street
And there he goes.
The ghost of the poet.
Walking his invisible dog.
Where will his poems lead?
His hat looks dangerously smart.
His black coat sways.
His hands are folded in front of him as he walks.
Folded in prayer as he strides.
Where does he go when it snows,
when his words disfigure the landscape
with their jagged veins?