James Joyce for today

I wore a caterpillar's frock, in green, of course,
All merry with yellow spots and yet,
It was not until I reached the top of that tower that I,
Trembling,
Thought of Joyce,
Fretting in his footfall,
The tiny steps,
Where his waistcoat,
Encased below,
Slightly trembled in its window-box.

Terrible eyes staring and admiring the embroidery.

'My walking stick,
My walking stick,
How, how can I do,
Without you?'

I left that air-voice behind,
Still searching for his stick.

Up on the top,
Those old men,
Dipping down and up,
In the Irish Sea.

Strange how the muscles become,
More distinct with age.
The cold and grey,
The air at the back of the brain,
And the eyes.

'My poor old eyes,
What they did to you, I'll never know.'

Spectacles and scratches,
That's all it ever was.

Manuscripts and fingerprints,
Postcards of you,
With your eye-patch,
And your world of Molly Bloom.