There's a man on a street who
is there only just about half the time and
maybe a little less.
I walk by him, and every day I see the old Disneyland in his eyes
with a shiny penny to put in an arcade machine and
the thick bulbs that glow on an old-fashioned Hollywood sign.
He's one of the dwarves from a Snow White ride,
an old sad face that's wrinkled so precisely
and eyes the brightest blue I can know seen in a fleeting instant.
And he was saying something but his voice was indistinguishable
monotone and bright.
And the Disney Man sits there with his cart
and his words
and his plastic wrinkles and blue blue eyes
and I wonder at his story
though I'll never know what it is.