Small Man with a White Shirt and Black Trousers in the Museum der Bildenen Künste, Leipzig

By | 1 July 2009

I didn't mean to be an artwork,
going about my business on the platz.
Coffee slurped smoke in-out
shirt tail wedged down one last time.
Okay, okay, white shirt into back trousers,
But he could've chosen one of the other drones.

Who knows what stirs behind the small splinters
and wood grain? It's just easier to thank yourselves,
that you didn't end up like me. All your fears
in one tidy package vanquished with a smirk
and sideways step to the next exhibit.
And I'm easy to store.

If I dropped on your foot,
you'd know. If I fell, I'd crack. Like
to see a picture do that. Maybe
the critics would mourn. But what I really
want is for someone to touch the indurate bulge
that is my hair and pretend to put it in place.

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