A Man Who Doesn’t Exist
I saw a man who didn’t exist
Across a narrow underpass.
His legs were slim but strong,
His mind clear and peripheral
His eyes warm in a chocolate fudge kind of way.
We had swum in the same gene pool,
Homologous creatures molded while still soft,
Our appearances strikingly similar during different eras.
I was the 4-pound-sugar-package-sized baby
That people looked at owl-eyed,
The thin college-kid forearm that held me.
Because reality always poisons what is purest,
He became a man that doesn’t exist.