Of a Man Caught up and Then Let Down

The man was built for hanging high His cheek, his grin and witty sigh Don’t keep the fool from losing face He staggers, and trips down from grace. He reaches out and grabs ahold Of fine string spun from finest gold Sly beauty slices through to bone He grits his smile and swings, alone. He wraps himself around the rope Encircled in the golden hope And swings a bit above the dirt Isolated in his hurt. The grass house people come to point Reusing laughter to anoint When darkness drains he’ll swing there still, Clutching at a dead man’s will.