After the Tea Party

So the hub-bub has ended
and everybody goes away.
Once again he looks like a man
who is supposed to be alone,
doing raggedy scaley scars
things and nostrils never clean.

I watch him leave the place in silence
walking a tilted one-and-a-half legged walk,
carrying his odd sacks, missing the path and
trodding unpredictibly into the snow.
His boots won't last.

Secretly, he never does things simply,
insists on subtlety. Who knows it?
You don't get sophisticated alone.
You have to speak. But I've forgotten that.