He lived on a great arm
stretching out-- curling inwards, as if flexing.
On the tip of the arm
where the hand should be
but isn't
sits a run down shack
paint gone-- gray as the sky.

He was the spawn of drunkards
who drowned in their ecstasy
leaving oyster boy alone
but he liked it that way.

So he lived the life of a hermit
and died
alone
pearless.