I once saw the killer of poems. He was not intentional, he simply moved through the world with such disdain that poetry could not survive near him. Not even poetry that was awful.

I followed him for a while, wondering what agendas he might have. Not too closely, for fear of being discovered, and for fear of my safety. Flowers wilted in his passing. It was not obvious, but I know it was true.

His clothes might be called shabby, but they weren’t dirty. Shabby because they didn’t fit well, one size bigger than it should be. The weight was all wrong, they were heavy, with creases that didn’t match the structure of the man. His shoes did not match. They were close, black with laces, round toe, serviceable. At a distance you couldn’t tell, but upon closer inspection one shoe had six holes for laces, the other had eight.

His gait was also unusual, his arms swung loosely from the shoulders, moving like a clapper in the bell of his heavy coat. It gave the illusion of a distorted timing of a natural swing. His shoulder roll projected his neck to go forward almost horizontally and his  head tilted up to compensate.

I notice that he comes to a complete stop on the curb, before stepping down to cross the street. This causes confusion for pedestrians behind him, there is a repeating ripple in the flow of traffic.

He appears to be traveling from the more residential areas to the city center complex. The dozen stairs up are as wide as the building. He shifts to the far right, then walks diagonally back to the center doors. I see his reflection in the glass doors. The gold lettering says ‘Senior Services Center’. He is old.

I see my reflection in the glass doors, with my mismatched shoes. I am old.