Mystery of the Man

He consumed his feelings
like a child swallows mints:
excited at the first taste but
too hasty, too eager, to allow
them to settle too long. They rest,
the dregs of an old half-drunk soda,
left to bake in some car far too long.

He wore moods like clothes;
changed once, twice, or else
thrown in the hamper dirty the
moment they touched his skin
only to shrink another size smaller
once they’d gone through the wash.

He shed tears of crystal glass,
its invisible etchings, razor-thin,
cut through the skin to burrow in
the bones of all who knew him.
It was them whom he cried for.

His smile was a garden, wild and green,
a stretching, creeping vine desperate
to latch on and take hold; yet alone
it was quiet, timid, and tame.

He laughed as a dog pants,
wheezing, with its teeth bared,
lapping at Joy while gasping for air.

He was a man armed with wisdom
enough to know he was only a boy.

He was a man of mystery until he was solved.

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