Poem: Cantankerous
Would it be a sin to call him what he is? The misanthropy ooozes from his soul
Like churro grease from the pores on your nose after a day
Spent at the carnival, where
Nineteen bucks will get you a $1.49 plush toy and an affirmation of your manhood.
You can smell the bitterness, just as dogs can determine identity from a million shades of urine.
(Or as an oeneologist — or pretentious fool — can discern the difference
Between an ’82 and an ’83 Pomerol.)
You can see it, too. Mostly
In the downward scowl and narrowing eyes, which squint
Even when the sun fails to shine.
He is what you fear. Harmless, irrelevant, forgotten.
But in the now, while he’s still around to make an impact,
However feeble,
The meanness radiates in a penumbra of discontent,
Infecting no one, tainting all.
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