The last of the great folk heroes

The last of the great folk heroes
lies crooked on his stomach
with a whisper of truth begging
to be heard by any but the
empty right hand that grabs up into the air
futile
in front of his face.
The old whorehouse philosophy
And the drunk
Drunk out of his mind
And nonsense enlightened
Rambling poet is
So old now.
And so out of his time.
Wrapped up in his tatty mac
And scrounging for Gauloises,
A lifetime older than the boys of his age,
And moulded so raggedly
He carved his face alone.
Rising only to scream at the birds
Then fall back again into a past
He wished was
His.