The Tourist from Syracuse

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.