He struggles to catch up
with those who seem
to be further along, 
skims the rim of a cereal bowl,
tiptoes across the yellow line.

Up all night,
awake like a blinking strobe light.
He slides down a slippery pole
greased in his own body fat,
trying to figure out the world
through a plastic Sippy straw.

Crooked eyes,
frazzled nerves and sizzled hair,
the master of intellectual
doublespeak,
the world’s foremost authority
comes up with the cure,
writes the best novel,
and has the answer to life’s
most pressing
problem.

Cycling between good and evil,
he believes he’s a God,
a hero, a devil,
supernaturally
imposed.

Conks out right on the red Target ball,
believes that jumping off a cliff
with paper wings and goggles
would be a credible solution,
retribution, salvation, absolution–
Even a colonic cleanse.
​