[Martin Elster]

Tall

His bed is nearly big as the Great Plains,
for he’s the tallest man on Earth. Each day
humanity looks up and stares away
in wonderment, but cannot see the stains
burned on his soul, his ever-present pains
with doors and clothing. Be that as it may,
he beams. Oh, basketball? He doesn’t play.
He’d rather read a novel when it rains.

Today he walks through woods and autumn leaves,
amid the dwarfing oaks, enjoys the sun’s
caress, forgets the jillion journal sheaves
that broach his height. He stops to catch his breath
and leans against a bole. His ticker runs —
tiny, steady — yet just short of death.