He has the flattest head of anyone I know.
Flatter than Norfolk.
Flatter than yesterday's ginger beer
or the voice of a drunken butcher
singing 'Goldfinger' to the night.
Things can settle on it
without rolling off
like leaves or fag ends,
loose change, random thoughts,
snow, cake, volcanic dust.
One could iron serviettes
or handkerchiefs on such a head
or rest a large bible during sermons
while reading dire and terrifying threats
of hell in punishment for random sundry sins.
And if one upends him on an icy lake
he slides like a blue hone stone
to curl majestically
over the far hog line
to everyone's surprise
and cold-footed delight.
If you have any comments on this poem, Rod Williams would be
pleased to hear from you.