Palmgrass

This wrinkle face young old man blows whistle puffs into morning chill

Wills a tear to climb off his cheek back safely into his right eye

Strong young man

Tettering puppet head supported by cracked body and hump

As of hung by a hook

Once mounted a woman a day

Young beautiful women in fourteen countries

In three languages

Only one begged him to leave

This young man who lifted enough earth in his hands to fill a canyon

Drank ten barrels of rye from twenty to fifty-nine

Hasn’t seen naked flesh other than his own sad skin for who knows how many years

But he can still taste it like the salt on his lips

This old young man

Bony veins for hands

Ear hair and eyebrows sprouting insane palmgrass

Forgets his verve

Forgets he once had feathers

Forgets the fist fights, improvised weapons and swagger

He forgets almost everything except Dahlia’s face

Proud young man

Dynamic, persuasive, romantic

Gourmet and bibliophile

Slumps on a park bench waiting for the day when he can forget that woman

Stretch out

And let whatever dignity remains

Fade away with his strapless soul