the old man builds model ships / all alone in his living room / reconstructing in miniature / those massive moments of his youth / And he quit drinkin after his beloved died / so now he ain't got much left to lose / he's under his light bulb in Shiloh / Satellites are trackin across the sky / an aging artist in his work boots / mentally polishing old diatribes / & the winter moon is picking up over shiloh / shining on his vexed situation / while he glues together the little pieces/ of a built-to-scale attrition / & he is at death's door/ and I'm in my Converse / jogging out along the county border / as the old man turns out his lamp and retires to his quarters / and the moon is out over Georgia / leading me to my latest epiphanies / and an old man is in Georgia / dreaming the last of his dreams
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