In His Defenestration

 There he goes swinging by us.

His daily walk looks intense.

And we crane our necks to get a better view

Of this obviously troubled soul,

One shirt sleeve up, one down

One foot booted, the other sneakered.

He gives us the punk salute:

This greying galoot.

 

There’s a scroll of words

On the back of his t-shirt.

My hubby got it on his phone one day.

We read it after he’d gone by:

‘All I think I am is a poet

This world hosts my piddlin’ self

Tolerating my diffidence

That heralds my difficulties;

Whose childhood failed

Having no idea of life

And since I am still alive

In my defenestration I thrive.’

 

And we took him in one day.

Taught him about decorum.

For one must walk with dignity;

And the neighbours will think

There goes a man with a purpose

Even if it’s to get the paper.

And then it clicked,

We like it personally delivered.