His hair was not his own, but I managed to stay present

and watch from the sidelines as he tugged the same strand back

over and over and over again with obvious irritation.

Still it would not fit into the tied strands the muses had left him.

I watched him and the pattern of his speech.

It amused me, because he could not let a smile in, and

he had no humor about himself.  He was out to fix other people

who he complained about vehemently, and no one’s story, if even heard,

was good enough for him besides his own.  He was intoxicated–with the aroma

of a flower for which he could not see the beauty–too busy walking around

with a bumper sticker saying, “I am great.”