PONDERING ANN: I

THE WOLFMAN BUSKER

The theater lights blend to 

stars, blend to the curling

bumble of a lightning bug 

bent on illuminating the 

small cracks and drainage

covers worn by the street. 

Here, the grass is missing, 

though a nature of sorts-

that of exhaust pipes and 

busy tidings- remains. A

wolfman howls, plucking 

a pizzicato confession of

loneliness, the tune sings

the somber spring of March.

Though still, the wolfman

bears a flannel husk, bears

a thousand hours through

the chilled night while few

pauses are granted by the 

occupied binoculars of each

passerby. Study their faces. 

Notice the curled lip and 

premature wrinkle formed 

upon the brow, as if to say

I have thought too hard

and too long on the dark

winter, though I find the 

solace of surprise in tides

of spring. These happenings

oscillate, from cold to warm,

drawing an ample fog of

condensation upon the 

windows of our mind, the 

eyes, the mirror neurons. 

What might the wolfman find, 

wiping away so many droplets?