a man in a thigh-length black leather jacket
smokes a blunt outside a bookstore
watches the books breathe
kicks at chewed bubble gum on the sidewalk
walks down the street a piece
to the browning grass and wishes
there were swans

a hundred fifty years to late to talk
of transparent eyeballs, or skirt the edge of a pond
in the woods, he says to no one, goblinish or manly,
with a rough voice and a clear head,
“my mind is so little, so so little.”

the books stop breathing as the moon comes up
and the smoke clears and the blunt tip of his boot
kicks at every missed step, every missed opportunity
to breathe with them. he notices the gum stuck to him
like all the rest of his bad ideas. the face of a swan
peeks back at him from the starry dark

90 years too late to drink illegal hooch,
to speak easy of flapping legs, of hard licks,
of bullets and steel cars that have no give
in the coming crash, he says to no one, rich or lost,
in a wet voice with a clear mind,
“my head is big, and it just has no time to be anything but big.”

he heads back to the bookstore and hopes
the books will wake up to breathe for him some more
he wipes the gum on the ground
walks the piece back up the street
forgets the browning grass
and hates the swans…

God, he hates the swans.