The Disney Man

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

so perfectly

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.

The End

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