There is something in the shrouding starch of clean linen,
A safety in the loose cocoon of his expensive suiting,
His cane propped in the swan shape of the arthritic hand,
The elegance of an undecayed preparation for death.
Mostly, however, it is the old man's clean white hat
Unfingered upon his creased, frivolous knees
That suggests he waits for no particular shape,
Nor thinks of any crowning glory but his own.