One sunny evening on South Clerk Street,
I saw myself a hundred yards ahead
deep in conversation with some girl
and without reflection, I said aloud
There's Roddy. It was near the spot
where a few years before, I'd witnessed
a crone in a 1950s winter coat
flagging down a hearse she thought was a cab.
But tell me, does he justify my sins?
I might not be there to check his lust,
to bat his hand down when it goes for yours,
or when he slips his arm around your waist.