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Poem	One of those men who can be a car salesman or a tourist from Syracuse or a hired assassin. -- John D. MacDonald You would not recognize me. Mine is the face which blooms in The dank mirrors of washrooms As you grope for the light switch. My eyes have the expression Of the cold eyes of statues Watching their pigeons return From the feed you have scattered, And I stand on my corner With the same marble patience. If I move at all, it is At the same pace precisely As the shade of the awning Under which I stand waiting And with whose blackness it seems I am already blended. I speak seldom, and always In a murmur as quiet As that of crowds which surround The victims of accidents. Shall I confess who I am? My name is all names, or none. I am the used-car salesman, The tourist from Syracuse, The hired assassin, waiting. I will stand here forever Like one who has missed his bus -- Familiar, anonymous -- On my usual corner, The corner at which you turn To approach that place where now You must not hope to arrive.
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