Mornings, we often passed him on the road,
                                    he drew out eyes like a full, white moon,
                                    he was always focused on the way ahead:
                                    the belt of conifers around the mountain.
                                    Like a shroud, he wore his hood,
                                    his skin like lime of the Georgetown tip,
                                    his boney limbs seemed poles of wood,
                                    his features rough stones of the hill-top.
                                    He was on the way up, we were descending,
                                    each breath a punch beyond his weight,
                                    each drab paving-stone the ring
                                    of canvas where he'd bloodily fought.
                                    Now he's struck in metal down town
                                    and nobody can break the Matchstick Man.