One of those men who can be a car salesman or a tourist from Syracuse or a hired assassin. — John D.
You would not recognize me.
Mine is the face which blooms
The dank mirrors of
As you grope for the light switch.
My eyes have the
Of the cold eyes of
Watching their pigeons
From the feed you have scattered,
And I stand on my
With the same marble patience.
If I move at all, it
At the same pace
As the shade of the
Under which I stand
And with whose blackness it seemsI am already blended.
I speak seldom, and
In a murmur as
As that of crowds which
The victims of accidents.
Shall I confess who I am?
My name is all names, or none.
I am the used-car salesman,
The tourist from Syracuse,
The hired assassin, waiting.
I will stand here
Like one who has missed his bus —Familiar, anonymous —On my usual corner,
The corner at which you
To approach that place where
You must not hope to arrive.
