He was unwantedly
relentless
in his impetuous prolix
pronouncements
Could bend even
the most patient
sturdy ear to
the breaking point
with his crooked
rivers of words
Did he really
tweet demanding
thanks from UCLA
basketball players?
Did he really
tweet an ungrateful
father's son
should've been left
in a Chinese jail?
I wish instead
that he'd strode
confidently into a garden
of roses
Winked on top of a dry
wry smile
Opened his mouth, and said
nothing at all—like a stone—
While inquisitive listening flies gathered
in his
suddenly silent mouth
While fluttering flocking pigeons
flitted
on suddenly scarecrow arms.
While squirrels around the man’s
stone cold feet
squirreled away
just enough acorns
for a suddenly warmer winter
and the felicitous sun
rose and set every day
After day
After day
After day.
And the man never spoke again.
Gil Hoy is a Boston poet and trial lawyer who is studying poetry at Boston University through its Evergreen program. Hoy's work has appeared most recently in Ariel Chart, The Penmen Review, Right Hand Pointing/One Sentence Poems, TheNewVerse.News and Clark Street Review.