A BELL RUNG

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.

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