AWOL
from the guardians of dementia
he tours the park again
dressed only in the sun
Needs a walker or a cane,
staggers slightly off the path
manly gems swinging wide
one below the other,
curses old gods, farts freely
and smokes long black cigars,
clears his throat of guilt and fear,
hocks it where it splats
“Well, basically, screw em’,”
he sneers at honking cars
Let them hoot and holler
and call the cops
for all he cares
“To each our own,
that’s my game —
Naked and alone we. . .”
he mumbles and can’t
remember the biblical verse
Walks now in his own way,
makes wee under dogwoods,
savors summer on bare skin,
searches for the little boy he was
before he lost the freedom
to be odd