Tom

                                                                                                                 

  Tom


Tom’s a crane, skinny pole,
Adam’s apple by Abe Lincoln.
There he is, cropping prints, vilifying enemies.
Backlanes – he studies weeds.
Billboards – peregrine falcons.
Stropping his razor for a raid on phonies, single gold tooth,
Diamond earing. Pirate he is but a quiet one.

Botanist. Drawing plants with an exact pen.
Photographing light in the neon downtown.
Toeing in, toeing out, on the edge of a sidewalk café.

And here he sits at Ken’s,
Long face suspended over chicken balls,
The light of gastronomic meditation in his eye, gleaming.