Little Old Man
Mustache where one might expect;
hair sticking up, he smiles like Einstein;
lost image on a useless I.D. card;
white on an otherwise black surface.
He once was, somewhere around five feet up
from the ground; his true and sole bride,
cold now, for a time so long forgotten;
he grins, in a heart which never knew him.
He remembers the burning heat of the bullet
Hitler passed through his arm; he laughs
a bit over five feet from the ground, he loves,
his soul much taller than the flesh.
Yet he laid himself to sleep of his own will,
crushed it seems by an evil taller yet,
which he could not vanquish, poor old man;
what Adolph did not do, a son would cause.
Author: Fabrice Poussin
Photo: Jorg Karg on Unsplash
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