The Tall and Short of It
Impossible to miss him in a crowd,
jet black moving chimney, one head
above the rest as though he walks on stilts.
In the sun his head of hair,
coiffured, defies brand new enamel.
Mostly he plays god, flits like a butterfly
in post chrysalis stage: choosing the
very best, discarding. The rest, he’s man
at large, a parakeet. In the rare cases
when he’s not making calls, wrapt, blabbing,
gesticulating, he’s chatting up some chick
just about his same size, her crush worn
like a charge inside her eyes, someone with
parched lips needing his own as salver,
someone malleable enough that can be bent
without breaking, someone dim and foolish.
Not like me who, despite distance and size
can see through him, his gossamer.
Copyright © Therese Pace | Year Posted 2018
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