His sicksweet smell grips
as a swish of doors
swirls it into my mouth.
His huge tummysag, bounces,
drags him down on every step,
hasn't seen toes for a while.
He and brother mind the fall-down farm.
They pass the time until the dark day
that one will be left, limbless.
Yesterday's old crumbs
still nest in a wiry beard.
The image could repel some,
the farm smell, a vagabond hum,
but early Sunday mornings, he dreams,
plays opera, recites poetry.
Love gleams for the two hours
he becomes a maestro,
conducts a beat of culture
to a city without a heart
until the star rises in his eyes.
Yes, on Sundays this pied piper,
through sound, so lithe and nimble,
transmit a scent of lillies to the air.
Sonja Broderick
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/jeckyll-hides/
