The Scarborough Grace

An old man on Grace Street is going mad

In a Canadian T-shirt he won’t change

And red unwrinkling pants I thought had made

Him stylish when I met him in the spring —

Five or six times a day I see him walk

Down Grace Street to St. Francis church, and knock

And pull its wooden doors, always shocked

That his entitled holy place is locked.

Undreams Damascus from a baffled Paul,

Rolls back the road where some unstricken Saul

Rises up, as bubbles through a beer

To a surface where we disappear

And wake in some uncalendared forever,

An unwelcome Elijah passing over.