He lumbers across the dark parking lot Dragging his feet like bad dreams. The golden light of his youth feathered Through the leaves of the trees shading the stream. Those he came with; who had brought him, Had faded away; long-gone forgotten dreams. Caterpillars and ants fell to feed the trout, Or minnows which, in turn, feed the lunkers downstream. When he fought, as he could feel he would soon, His scarred knuckles pulverized the spots where once hung his dreams. There was a chessboard in the attic where an empty spool stood for a bishop And a plastic army man was the king-thrusting with bayonets and screams.