What lights his eyes
tiny sparks distant stars
that wink, fade
their flare snapped shut, elapsed
before ths busy passer-by notices, the hasty
jogger with deadlines, tracing a circuit.
Public opinion is of little regard, a sparrow’s
crumb tussled over by the common
birds huddled in their natty stripes, jaunty
chocolate caps askew.

Only the shadows that fall
like night whisper his fame
to the curled leaves resting beneath
the park bench where he sits,
those lined stories retold
of J. Black, Jack-of-all-
trades, master-of-
whatever, nothing
memorable except this
deft evening, desultory
applause, momentary fame
as the moon becomes
witness to it all.