The Grace of You

The Grace of You

He was sitting at a corner table when I saw him,
facing to the wall and on his own.
Slumped in the corner, the picture of dejection,
disconsolately stabbing at a scone.

And later, by the window, in the post office,
staring blankly at a poster, chewing a nail.
Underneath the one about the Colorado beetle,
readdressing a big pile of someone’s mail.

And there, but for the Grace of God, stumble you and I.
There, but for the Grace of You, go I.

That evening in the pub where I was playing,
his head was in his hand most of the time.
He was lining up the glasses of cheap Mexican tequila
and slamming them right back – without the lime.

And there, but for the Grace of God, stumble you and I.
There, but for the Grace of You, go I.

And everywhere I went that day I saw him
living out the broken-heart clichés:
staring in a drink; skimming stones across a lake;
wandering in a catatonic daze.

And there, but for the Grace of God, stumble you and I.
There, but for the Grace of You, go I.

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