24 of 30, 2015

Two Spaces

"Why, man, he doth bestride the narrow world / Like a Colossus..."

Any place men gather, he is there, a taker. Vulcanite
and magnesium straddle the paint like a witch-broom,
doublewide circle to abjure dings and the restless dead.
Tightrope walker of the tarmacadam, gaudy, daring,
even in park. Let the passing waves roll eyes or exhale
an impotent seethe. The ones who have learned to love
borders will give him room, and that is the twinkle
in his polished smirk. But charity abides, I suppose
because of stripes taken long ago, so we must say:
Perhaps it's space he needs. Perhaps it was a bad job
lamely beyond his powers. It's so hard to tell
the difference between greed and blindness
with so much metal in your hands.