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.