It had to be somebody else—
that picture they said was I;
he was old and paunchy,
looked like he should be
chewing a cheroot in a rocker,
cracking wise about the good old days
on the porch out front of his ranch.
He was a weathered old campaigner,
a sitter, past it all; used to his own ideas
deaf to anyone else’s, tired of youth
‘s old discoveries and inventions,
ready to take his Saturday night bath
in the hard tub at the bottom of a deep hole.