Masterpiece.

This evening I was a gray-feathered pigeon,
A spectator of ethereal occurrences.
Upstairs, the paperback palaces bestowed Brigham
With a messenger, and he wasn't to utter a syllable.

He wore navy blues like a sailor,
The stature of a Santa Claus,
Spectacles like Buddy Holly
And the scent of the deepest dumpsters,
Scattering my fellow cockroaches
With every step,

He carried his beard
Like a lot of broken wings.
With one black sneaker on foot
And, due to lacerations,
The other in palm,
He positioned himself
Inside the train by the exit

And then he revealed himself.
A curled lip or two.

For one moment
I couldn't be so self absorbed
For his ebullience shone brightest in my pen.
His warped grin was uncontrollable.
I've never seen someone
Bask in the magestry of people
With a smirk

And he was shameless.
His love dripped
In blazes of silver streaks.
Anyone would fall into tears.

Something has pierced
The ice.
Suddenly, I can feel
My fingertips.
Suddenly, I can
Hear the bells.
Suddenly the stale souls
who gaze into glass
move rapidly,
Suddenly there is no
and every reason to cry
for his tears fall softly
forming rainbows on his cheeks.
Smiles, Cries, Over-Joyous.
Look at what we've done.

He stepped onto the sidewalk,
And I was frozen.

How I wish I could have
Sat with him and
Maneuvered that train
Into the Atlantic,
Sharing
Laughter, fear,
And the wonder of a stratosphere
Of children.

May not have caught his eye,
But I was the only one
Who saw him this evening.
My heart is left
In shards of crystal.
He was simply
The most beautiful thing
I've ever seen.