In the bolted summer grass, he’s just another over-grown boy
fiddling the stem of his pen, sipping a cup of tea.
The brown vole topcoat drapes him, and he hides
among the weeds.
He is a weed. He is a seed. He writes in tiny cursive bursts
no one can read.
The street has too many people. Nowhere to simply stand,
away from clattered talk and pitiful regards.
There is no protection from fools.
Uneasy with his flimsy notebook, the necessary capitals,
the lines, and what he might disclose.
Put it down. The body already told.