Scares even the
Moonlight away—
His only friend
The artificial
Eight-pronged
Sun of street lamps
Marking "X"
His position.

I'm quite sure he's
Undocumented—
Perhaps a new age
Nightcrawler only,
Not powerful at all.

I can see
His hands—
How they yearn
To clutch something more
Than the cigarettes
And the rosaries
That line his left and right
Ring fingers—
Shapeshift and
Solidify—
Take heart.

Behind him is
The old Senate,
To be converted to
A museum—

His name swallowed up
By the hollow grandeur
Of a once great Nation's
Emptied stronghold.