by G.M.H. Thompson

Long, gnarled hair & bony eyes like a worn-out baseball glove—

past sixty but with a moody teenager’s resentment,

like the evil carny in Something Wicked This Way Comes

who rides the backwards carousel to become young again,

like he was wearing a body he bought at a thrift store,

& I had only ever talked to him one time before

when he’d said I sounded like Tiny Tim (though I didn’t),

to which I’d said that I hated when people told me that

(& St. Louisians worship this obscure 60s creep),

& maybe saying it, he’d meant it as a compliment

but one night, he gave me the finger & an ugly sneer,

& friends say this was a joke, but his eyes said he meant it,

& I don’t know why he did that, but he was there alone

while I sat at the band’s front table with a pretty girl.