A man of shape and tone, muscle flowing soft
as if muscle could;
as only muscle could;
Gentle eyes, holding back a deep seeded kindness,
and an eternal question begging to be answered;
He stands quiet, as if imitating a sculpture,
then the smile, the glint behind the teeth of a secret
only he could know.
His mouth drips with witty colloquialisms,
and sprays fire to burn away any sense of passed time.
The traces of foreign countries run the length of his forearms
small bumps and pops in the veins,
stories that he carries,
gently scarred into his shoulders,
a parachute to lift him from crashing
to the earth.
True shape, honest form,
kind and paternal,
He stands, allowing his blood to
fill and pulse in its vessel.