When his hair grows back he’s ready
for a new age.  In New York City
the women eye him beneath the theater
marquee.   And then there are many passers-by
with shirts like his.  A one-a-hup,
a two-a-hup, a hey-joe, and now and then,
uncannily familiar: A walking dead.

Half-naked sitting at the table — the mice
alone eye his scars. The numbers
on his forearm are his secret code,
his ace in the hole, his mysterious
lottery.

And later, walking past the school,
the fence is a magic lyre
beneath the wind’s touch, while
just beyond, the stars hint an altogether
different song.