Friday, September 14, 2012


He had a late summer swagger
as he strutted down the street
in his shiny sharkskin suit. I thought
they had stopped making those but no
one told this slick suited swain.

His aviator sunglasses were
merely the frosting on an
otherwise unremarkable
purple shirt and tie cake.
His gait was in tune to the music
in his head.

It wasn’t reality to him as he
grooved along the sidewalk
passing the squares and rubes.
The party was in his mind and
he was the V.I.P. and no one else
was invited.

He strutted the way I imagined a
Cro-Magnon would have strutted
in a shimmery sharkskin suit.
His arms all a dangle, swaying
wildly as his bow legs did their
best to look smooth.

I imagined his thoughts and
his confidence in how good
he felt he looked while ignoring
the snickering condescension of
the pretty smoking girls.

His suit, that silly, shining suit
was the punch line to a joke no
one had wanted to hear. It was the
rim shot to a bad pun.

He went on his way rocking it
down the sidewalk till he was out
of view. Something inside me told
me he probably owned a boat and
there was a very sexy bikini girl waiting
for him.

I rubbed my expanding gut and sought
refuge in my cubicle to hide from the
eyes that might write a poem about

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