A Green Lion Bites the Sun in the face
an old man holds out his hand. The nearby
newspapers, the linen on the daybed remained
unsigned. My heart-rate doubled while this
happened, yet the glow was not caused by my
sweat. Should I have been sent to the front?
Or deemed unfit for service? I hear their thoughts
with my fingertips. I rap out codes for tomorrow.
My size makes no difference at all. The old man
burned beyond recognition simply doffed 
his body and rose. His fingers remained in the grate.
Ask him who he is.
(His size makes no differnce either.)
Now tell me who I am.
The document remains unsigned.

The East Village Poetry Web
Jesse Glass