The Small Man

Beware the small man
Dressed in the dirty pinstripe suit.
He'll look at you at first as if afraid,
Then he'll gnash his teeth at you
And swing at you with his cane.
They say he collects children's body parts
Which he keeps in formalin-filled jars
On a shelf in his basement--
Little toes, limp little hands, sad eyeballs.
He's lived here a long time,
But he's a stranger to everyone.
Everywhere he goes, a cloud of dust follows.
Some think he started out as scum from the sewers,
And slowly, collecting refuse as he oozed along,
Formed into the creature he is now.
His eye is as black as his bowels,
And his soul exists only in your nightmares.
If you see this man walking toward you,
Don't turn around and run away.
He'll only appear like a phantom on the next corner.
Instead, shut your eyes, and kiss a penny for good luck.
If you don't have a penny, find something sharp,
Slice your finger, and offer him
A drop of your blood.

Poets and Doctors

For Ethan

A fool, even a child,
Can write a poem.
But to operate on a man's spleen--
That's a challenge no fool or child
Should ever undertake.
Still, poetry and medicine have
Their similarities.
For instance, diagnosing a rare disease
Must be something like rhyming
"Student" with "prudent,"
Or "penumbric" with "alcoholic."
And doing a basic checkup must
Be somewhat like writing a sonnet.
And perhaps, like medicine, poetry can save lives, too.
For saving a life is sometimes as simple as
Giving a life meaning
Or taking the time to understand
Why someone is blue.

Love

My grandparents were married for sixty years
Before my grandmother died at the age of eighty seven.
When asked after the funeral what it was about her
That kept him loyal for all those years,
My grandfather didn't mention my grandmother's looks,
Though she was beautiful,
Nor her wit, or grace,
Or charm. No, he said it was a sense that
There was some secret she was keeping from him,
Something that he could not simply ask about,
As if she were a story whose ending
Always remained a mystery.
When asked if the secret was revealed
Now that she was dead,
He smiled, shook his head, and said,
"Some things are best left unknown."

Dog Park

Boston Common 3/11/16

Here the tight laced business man
Dressed in a suit and tie
And his nervous but kindly Labrador
Mingle with the out-of-work schizoid
And his miniature schnauzer-corgi mix
Who looks after his master like a soldier
Over a wounded comrade.
The rottweiler sniffs the butt
Of the tiny chihuahua,
As the sophisticated woman in black
Makes a video of the little golden haired
Girl petting the amber fur
Of a little devil-faced terrier.

This is certain: man and dog
Are inseparable.
When the park is empty, and all the people
And all the dogs are at home
Asleep, they will be dreaming of people
That behave like dogs,
And dogs that behave like people.

Truth and Beauty

Bronzed skin without a blemish.
Relaxed green eyes, perfectly symmetrical.
Ears, mouth, and little nose,
Also all perfectly symmetrical.
Long flowing hair, as if weaved of gold.
Her beauty is such that I cannot
Look away, which is too bad,
Because when she parts her perfect red lips
To shove a sandwich into her gob,
She suddenly takes on the appearance
Of something that's risen from the
Primordial ooze. Ah, beauty.
It only lasts as long as one
Can resist the truth that lies behind it.

New Moon

Entranced by the deafening stillness
Of the new moon's shadow,
I move like fog out into the darkened road.
The black spotlight of moon shadow
Resting upon me, I stand alone--
My audience, the stars.
I raise a single silhouetted hand,
And, aching with curiosity,
The moon turns around.

Old Man in a Cafe

The cafe is empty except for me
And an old man stirring his coffee
At a table in the corner.
I've been watching him all afternoon.
He has been sitting, one long leg
Crossed over the other, staring intently into space,
His impressive brow furrowed,
His broad mouth in a grimace,
One large, hair-covered hand resting
On his knee, all these long hours,
His only movement being the slow,
Methodical stirring of his coffee
With the small metal spoon in his hand.
Whatever is floating around in this man's skull,
It is not lukewarm coffee,
But he continues to stir it,
Till he is ready to drink.