Stumbling to the corner it didn’t matter

where he went, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Raising his head he sniffed the morning air,

legs trembling like a new born

colt, he shuffled down the street.

If he’d known he’d have a stroke

by the age of thirty eight he would

have listened to his disobedient soul.

A harlequin kid who ran before he could walk,

scooted around on a unicycle: “Look ma, no hands!”

Busted his bones racing motorcycles, sky dived

above the clouds in a heavenly ballet

high on the risk to life and limb.

A lively satyr he cha cha cha’d his way

through endless nights of erotic play.

A champion cold caller stock broker

he parlayed his winnings for that

fiery flower up his snout.

Growling silently, taste of burnt ashes in his mouth

as able bodied older men strode briskly by, a black

widower mourning the loss of his former self.

Day after day alone on a park bench

the sun softened his clenched jaw

reminding him to breathe again.

Enraptured with silence allowed him

to see with the eyes of a child, noticing

the iridescent speckled green and shades

of purple plumage on a starling pecking

around his melancholy drooping legs.

Nodding off he dreams of floating above

the Milky Way, serenely at home in

the Sea of Tranquility.

Milton P. Ehrlich