Just fine.
A foot stool suited
Nezworth Abbey, Harry's allonym,
writer of scrunch verse,
author of rants,
builder of cathedrals in pop sticks
and president of the Society for the Restoration of
Mispronounced Words, like harass and schism:
a membership in flux.
Thirty-two, the recidivous
dreamer.
Today Harry feels
like the tread of the earth, though,
for the grave mistake that rolls out
this chronicle of scandal, of fate
is entirely his.
Alone --
And now he broadens out a smile sized to that of
the lunatic in the park who lustily claps his teeth
at joggers. He smiles,
those bald eyes, into the mirror
at the far end of the office
at himself, aware,
virilely aware
of his power to right the universe,
as we all are
at some depth of our own,
and to hammer across the room and to do it right now__
but smiling,
and still,
he sits awe-struck
by the unseen suck
that incapacitates him,
and keeps fleshy joggers safe
in public places.
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