I suppose,

everyone has shadows and grey lunch pail days

which fail to sprout rudders and float

’til submarines gloat in shade,

bleak eyes watch these fleshy outlines 

above all 

watch for starfish who need stitching,

in his mind,

the massive mob grows cold on asphalt

grows and grows 

til he lays old and loveless and all alone,

under designer heels 

smack self 

right on his worth

he is sure he can hear seals 

laugh 

about his girth 

in the staff lunchroom,

the young women eat salads 

and his thinning hair sways  in currents under grass blades 

it is their forks, which poke him in the eye

a single sigh 

he sends to his shadow

Or…

then again he may look up,

it could happen you know and

see how sun light winks 

on the plump arms of a toddler throwing popcorn to a seagull 

right outside his cubicle window

he could…

(well he might)

smile at the face of a lily 

as she peers out of her gilded office frame,

grab the grace of a day by the lace of her glove

have a picnic in the park 

so he can watch how sunlight blooms

on the water fountain 

wait for starfish to rise on the least expected night

to twinkle like dandelions above his silvery head

call it all a days work

rest like a king

to rise

again

…well he could

( ok he might)