He

He turns a moment into the Atlantic Ocean

He turns the Atlantic into ice for the polar bears

and the polar bears into petunias

for...her

 

He sways like a snake charmer

He blinks in slow motion

He lights a cigar

but never smokes it

 

Some say he’s a fictional character

Some say he’s voodoo

Others believe he’s a mystic guru

 

He inhales

and the clouds leave the sky

He exhales and women sigh

 

He plucks fruit from barren orchards

Cries to alleviate drought

but remains silent...when

everyone else is frantic lava, volcanic ash

taking landslide action....he perches

like a dream about to melt

 

He lifts a laser beam

and electricity flows through his fingertips

Puddles of discrepancies rest at his toes

 

No one dares climb up

to see what prediction he has

for the freckles to him are a road map

and the ungrateful soon to be ship wrecked

by the karma imposed

 

He’s not even born yet

yet, we can see him

Like a shared premonition

Like a bible that hasn’t been written

Like a woman worthy

who tells his tale so all will know what to look for

 

once she’s gone.