It isn’t that he doesn’t have a leg to stand on – he has two.
His other bodily accoutrements are operative; nothing is askew.
He really only has one dread.
How to choose a head.
It used to be amusing long ago –
to opt for something roguish or de trop:
to play iconoclast, and be a blast –
long-haired and beatific, or obnoxious ass –
scathing and vituperative or as sweetly wisely prayerful as a monk.
And in his deepest funk –
when he was really down –
he knew he could put on the clown.
But lately it was tedious to fake it.
What might it be to be? – just sit there like a an opening and take it?
He sighed: he knew he’d grown unpalatable naked.
Who would want him if he didn’t do his acts?
What were the facts?
Surely nothing he should pout about.
He’d sit there headlessly and think it out.
.
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