An anarchist poet
Who blew up words in leather-bound journals
With fancy fountain pens
Drinking lattes in suburban coffee shops.
He was ever hopeful for a southbound train.
A budding Buddhist
Who tried to meditate against migraines
And spread socialist ideals across internet wires
Strung by the company he worked for.
A dichotomous conundrum he sought to avoid.
A reluctant Dad,
Surrounded by a gaggle of children
who huddled closely to absorb his wisdom, his patience, his grace,
Played dueling banjos, against a backdrop of Sponge Bob.
His signature giggle, a pillar on which the house rested.
A lover, a husband, a friend,
He played a plethora of roles for a handful of avid fans,
Left the building, taking his exit on a bedroom floor.
A heart too kind, too full, to exist in a world
That did not turn its head in awe of such brilliance.
©2023 Jennifer Deshaies
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