He thought greatly of himself.
His phrases and finger pointing
attempted to fill the nothingness
beneath his shirt. He was respective
of others as long as they listened
to him. His neckties were bright and
his eyes fired from a burn on his
tongue. Business was his business
but no one knew what business.
The flavor of ice was the interest he
shared. He lived in the next town
but unknown by sight or memory
to those nearby. A full moon follows
him, curious of his path. He lectures
the sky. Quiet has no place with him.
His stories continue until sleep
shuts him up.
Roger Singer 