There’s nothing sub about him.
Always up on things, in the loop,
his hair even cut in the latest couture
and his clothes just in: perfectly down
and dirty, tears sewn to the T,
As he scribbles in a clumsy scroll, bloods,
in black chalk on the ground, leaves
fall on this elm and hyacinth lined street.
He’s so conscious of the collective gaze,
the alternate funk and laze of this month’s hit.
He is styled and restyled with the seasons
and emerging as a man with every change of look.
Meanwhile, the squirrel he shot by the fence
in the back yard decomposes.