crazy man’s walking down walnut street
talking to himself, no, not just talking
pointing hands, cutting slices of invisible provolone,
pounding the top of an airy lectern,
slapping fist to chest and raising his chin to heaven offering up his
special understanding of the nature of things and urging heaven to agree
and give him oh give him lordy man, a sign, a nod
a yesyes even if only he can hear
the big uh-huh. then he will close the deal
with the great understanding and the cosmic heart and mind and wallet
will embrace him and by the time he reaches rittenhouse square he will be
affirmed by the firm, understood by those with standing, not withstanding
that no one but him heard a thing on walnut street that day.
and he could be shithouse-rat, rabid-bat, gnat-flicking, pinky-sticking suitcase nuts.
he could be living inside a bread bag where
there’s nothing but him and six invisible pets
and chandeliers made out of fine-wrought wire-taut thought.
or
he could just be another guy with a phone
in his skull who’s walking while he’s talking to a woman
who won’t quite do just yet just now just what
or
he could be a poet trying to get a ruling
that it’s really all one big pretzel
no matter how you salt it
.
and ain’t it a shame about the rest of us
walking the other way, looking at
the crazy man lover poet and not knowing
which one he is
or which one we’ll be
when we poke our very own hands in the air
and drum our breasts
on the other, farther side of the square.