A Diminished Thing
The ruin of a stylish building, he
Presides now over that dull avenue
Late Middle Age. Not near senility,
This man’s poetic as Kalamazoo,
Yet once he was a skyscraper with black
Curls. They are going thin and turning gray.
His massive chest and butt are hanging slack
Like siding that’s come loose, that winds can play
With, desultory in destruction. His skin,
Once taut as glass across a tall façade,
Slumps more like dampened crêpe paper strands in
The rain when marching bands are gone. Charade
Of what he used to be, he drinks each night,
Ignoring slow architectural blight.