I’d planned to have breakfast at work that day,
planned to sleep through an alarm or two,
ran ‘til I got a stone in my shoe.
Distractedly marching, I was almost halfway
when I caught a glimmer like a spark in the eye,
a flash of celebrity as a guy
pushed by. And I knew in a flash, right away:
This was the man for whom he had died.
He’d a red dressing gown and worn-dirty flip-flops
(if I were him I wouldn’t care what I’d wear)
I tried not to gawp, you’re not meant to stare.
He’d a five o’clock shadow – it was ‘bout nine o’clock.
As we passed I could smell he was worse for the drink -
here was a legend, here in the flesh,
his gown was shabby, his face a mess
from fighting or falling, or both I think.
Never did I think I’d meet face to face
this sole object of divine dying grace.