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.