98

He is at the store counting out
His change. Under the tubelights
He is like a kind of ghoul, so
Washed out as to seem fading
Into view constantly, always
On the boundary of being formed.
The attendant is behind the till
Watching him count, watching
The silver coins fall and gather
In his white, brittle hands.
His calculation is as detritus
Accumulating noiselessly in the
Thin atmosphere of the store;
He wears a bow tie, speaks only
Very softly; he seems a figure
Of ridicule to the attendant, in
His loose, white silk shirt and
His small, worn grey loafers.
A woman comes in and space
Sways around the carnations on
Her dress, and he watches her.