In a proud orange sweatshirt,
sitting inches in front of me,
was a 5 foot 2 man,
around
73. Outgoing,
armed with his lines,
in black foam
shoes.
His frame was marked by a symmetry,
like clay,
folded in a box.
I stared,
I always
do,
still a child and a gay bird.
His chin and neck were dotted with pin sized bumps.
They seemed to cause no physical pain.
Showing the strength and resilience,
was the comb in his pocket.
And hair just so,
hair just so.
The intercom
had spoken to him for fun.
I came close,
to asking for his autograph.
I let him be.
He walked off,
complimenting everyone.
For a job well done.
Well done.
