When he recited limericks, his chin waggled.
When he drank milk, his nostrils flared.
When he smiled, his two front teeth showed very large. He suffered from osteohippopotimis, he claimed.
To watch him write, you would say there was revelry in poetry.
To watch him drink; poetry in revelry.
I first met him in a park, where he was strewing roses on a path. “For the young couples who walk past,” he explained.
“Yes, but why are they made out of concrete?” I asked.
“So their petals don’t fall off.”
“Oh.” I said… “I see.”
He looked at me severely. “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
I looked back. “Those look like they can’t possibly be less than 4.6oz”
We were silent, looking at each other for a long, long time.
“4.6 pounds.” he said.
The last time I saw him he was wearing fatigues and leaving for Afghanistan.
“I’m going to gather poppies for my Sunday suit.” He flashed his tusky grin.
The next day, I wondered if I should worry about him.
“No,” I thought, “He’ll be all right.”