Poem: No Country For An Old Thug
( After Yeats’ Byzantium)
. The Homie Pours His Liquor
An aged homie is but a paltry thing.
A tattered jersey, chain, and doo rag.
A tattered life plays shadow tag
in bombed-out streets and buildings.
Sages standing in holy corners
laugh as he grinds his teeth
laugh as slobber coats him a sheath
Of crimson over metal over crimson
A tattooed jersey on a stick
He is a billboard-a symbol- a mark-
something to part from and gaze away.
Windows close. Patrons avert their eyes
and restaurateurs shudder at him.
Souls clap their hands but do not sing
His praises waiting for the 2, studying
he would come or come at them
As Pawnshop owners re-shift their locks.
Yet-in jersey shorts, overcoat, and socks
he screams, “This is for my homies.”
II. The Homie Gets Robbed
The boys on hillside will become thugs
and the old thug has his bottle.
They will their young and unsteady…
