You saw him a boy in his early pants
A silly boy at that , cracking the night
In bank’s arithmetic, his day’s book,
Wearing moist smile on fleshly face,
Like green faces in your backwaters
In their droll smiles dancing a night.
Now he is all night with old wisdom
From silver of egg-white, yellow leaf
Under a green turning white process
His dog-eared daybook in fuzzy hand
Buried deep under a dug up forehead.
Egg head is squeezed between youth,
(The ones scrolling up to a sky roof)
Old man whose pants are giving way
While his figures are no longer taken
Into the final arithmetic of big bank
And they do not add up to anything.