Disillusioned by the open market,
he polishes his glasses and stretches,
running a hand through hair made artistic
by the blunt scissors of the philosophy major
who lives downstairs. It was a trade,
he tells me. Short back and sides for a batch
of macadamia nut cookies. Barter economy.
He mutters about measured value,
divides a piece of paper, and breaks a pencil
while forcing the verses of quarter sheet poems,
recounting the night he stole four sponges
from a craft supply store in town,
a drunken ****-you to the establishment-
but also, he admits, it was late and
he had to do the dishes.
If you want to see how big the world is,
he says, take off your belt. Now
tighten it to the usual hole, put it down,
and look. You are a speck of dust on
the wineglass of human existence.
Don't let it get to you. You are smaller and better
than you think. Another quarter sheet finished,
he slumps back on the defeated sofa
and reads me Desiderata, putting on airs,
grappling with devotions to poke holes in certainty
just as I do now to the worn leather strap,
shrinking my claim to the wineglass with each punch
of the silver awl, and after years, still waiting
for the clink of his belt buckle,
the moment when, humbled,
he remembers he is only
a child of the universe.