Vladimir Fischer

Winter had that cold, and maybe quiet.
Unimpressive, unremarkable,
but such a recognizable demeanor—
like a tired neighborhood cat or beggar
that you observe and notice.
And maybe even kill the reflex to pet or help.
But you would never recognize the features.
You will hope never to meet them again
when you walk alone too late.

But this poem is not about the beggar or the cat,
or even about the winter that has passed.

It is more about the person I met.
So strange, and young, so utterly disgusting—
and yet incredibly charming. Ugh.
A part of me wished we had never talked.

But no. The Lord is far too skilled a producer
for the film of my life that He decided to stitch
on the strings of connected Polaroids.

He made him so pure, naïve on the edge of insanity—
pious, righteous, helping, caring,
with established hobbies in not an established mind.

And what then?

Yes, He is laughing.
Why not take a creature so pure,
constructed wrongly for this world,
and connect it with the tired, lustful,
and rather unimpressive poet
who thinks he has found his way,
but always gets lost in direction?
Who will lead whom?
I don’t know.
But the Guy with the Polaroids knows.


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