He didn’t do it, remember?

The light hit the face at that

Crooked, something-degree angle and

Scattered like roaches.

His brow twisted, lips curled

Downwards and furled.

No man falls like that.

No man falls

On his knees

Wrings his hands

Bent like trees

And grabs the light,

Looking for a ladder to heaven to—

…Well, many things, I suppose.

Two-toned reds do little for

A man with a weak constitution.

Poor guy, he thought,

Poor me—

 

Poor little Richard

Wants a smile to curb his

Life-bitten lips and to kneel before

The man who struck his happiness down

And wants to be happy

 

Man wants

                What

                                He

                                                Owed

                                                                Him—