Barefoot, wildly whiskered
to his navel,
a tiny shirtless man laughs
into the leaves of an autumn tree
aside the asphalt pathway
circling the breezy park,
rocks to and fro to the racket
of a battered boom box
in his cradle of lost music
Young mothers in the fresh morning
pushing buggies, toddlers in hand,
quicken their pace at his sight,
chatter faster and louder
hoping their children
will not hear or see him
as they hurry by,
unaware their little ones
already have
turned and seen him
in a blink
as Lot’s wife did
with a last glance
at the clamor and celebration
of the unfettered life