stinking old man
gray tweed jacket
hangs loose
over his slumped shoulders
he stands on the corner of 3rd and Main
with no particular place to go
November drizzle
taps out
its winter rhythm
on a black garbage bag
at his side
bulging
with empty cans and memories
his square face
scratched glass
catches the orange
of the flashing “don’t walk” light
softened by the fog
of his own breath
there was a child
whose face was round
as full moon
low in the sky
round as a dot
in a question mark
he dwelled at the feet of gods
who could speak in thunderclaps
bring summer with a smile
fork lightning with a glower
they sang, cursed
whispered perfume
blew fire from their mouths
they caressed his cheek, tenderly
broke his jaw
never knowing which
he learned to walk lightly
he too could whisper
to a bear with button eyes
a monkey made of socks
his secrets hid
within the undulations
of his voice
at night
when gods do
whatever gods do
in darkness
drizzle hardens – sleet
car horn screams
light turns green
old man clutches his bag
and drags it across 3rd street
lightly
still watching for the gods
who have faded away
years ago
-Stan A. Baldwin-