The Man Who Sits on a Step at the Duck Pond
I’ve yet to see that man smile, a face
set like thick-sawn wood. He moves
only rarely so as to not appear dead.
He says everything in this little town
is one of two things – either alive or
dead. Yet he’s never happier in life
than when he’s well stuck in a mood.
And he takes a knife from his pocket,
slices deep into an apple, and eats it.